Moving Pictures (Discworld 10)

'Put him down, Detritus. He doesn't want to be hanging around,' said Throat. 'And gently.' He looked around at the fascinated faces.

'Remember,' he said, 'I'm looking for Victor Tugelbend and I'm going to make him a star. If anyone sees him, you must tell him. Oh, and I'll have the steak rare, Fruntkin.'

He strode back to the door.

After he had gone the chattering flowed back like a tide.

'Make him a star? What'd he want a star for?'

'I didn't know you could make stars . . . I thought they were like, you know, stuck to the sky . . . '

'I think he meant make him a star. You know, him himself. Turn him into a star.'

'How can you make. anyone into a star?'

'I dunno. I suppose you compress them right up small and they burst into this mass of flaming hydrogen?'

'Good grief!'

'Yeah! Is that troll mean, or what?'

Victor looked at the dog carefully.

It couldn't have spoken to him. It must have been his imagination. But he'd said that last time, hadn't he?

'I wonder what your name is?' said Victor, patting it on the head.

'Gaspode,' said Gaspode.

Victor's hand froze in mid-tousle.

'Tuppence,' said the dog, wearily. 'World's only bloody harmonica-playing dog. Tuppence.'

It is the sun, Victor thought. I haven't been wearing a hat. In a minute I'll wake up and there'll be cool sheets.

'Well, you didn't play very well. I couldn't recognize the tune,' he said, stretching his mouth into a terrible grin.

'You're not supposed to recognize the bloody tune,' said Gaspode, sitting down heavily and industriously scratching one ear with his hind leg. 'I'm a dog. You're supposed to be bloody amazed I can bloody well get a squeak out of the bloody thing.'

How shall I put it? Victor thought. Do I just say: excuse me, you appear to be tad . . . No, probably not.

'Er,' he said. Hey, you're quire chatty for . . . no.

'Fleas,' said Gaspode, changing ears and legs. 'Giving me gyp. I

'Oh dear.'

'And all these trolls. Can't stand 'em. They smell all wrong. Bloody walking stones. You try and bite 'em, next minute you're spittin' teef. It's not natural.'

Talking of natural, I can't help noticing that-

'Bloody desert, this place,' said Gaspode.

You're a talking dog.

'I expect you're wondering,' said Gaspode, turning his penetrating stare on Victor once again, 'how come I'm talking.'

'Hadn't given it a thought,' said Victor.