Gaspode grinned nastily. 'Oh, I reckon when Dibbler's just got a mouthful of food'd be favourite.'
Holy Wood Hill bustled like an ant heap. On the seaward side Fir Wood Studios were making The Third Gnome. Microlithic Pictures, which was run almost entirely by the dwarfs, was hard at work on Golde Diggers of 1457, which was going to be followed by The Golde Rushe. Floating Bladder Pictures was hard at work with Turkey Legs. And Borgle's was packed out.
'I don't know what it's called, but we're doing one about going to see a wizard. Something about following a yellow sick toad,' a man in one half of a lion suit explained to a companion in the queue.
'No wizards in Holy Wood, I thought.'
'Oh, this one's all right. He's not very good at the wizarding.'
'So what's new?'
Sound! That was the problem. Alchemists toiled in sheds all over Holy Wood, screaming at parrots, pleading with mynah birds, constructing intricate bottles to trap sound and bounce it around harmlessly until it was time for it to be let out. To the sporadic boom of octo-cellulose exploding was added the occasional sob of exhaustion or scream of agony as an enraged parrot mistook a careless thumb for a nut.
The parrots weren't the success they'd hoped for. It was true that they could remember what they heard and repeat it after a fashion, but there was no way to turn them off and they were in the habit of ad-libbing other sounds they'd heard or, Dibbler suspected, had been taught by mischievous handlemen. Thus, brief snatches of romantic dialogue would be punctuated with cries of 'Waaaarrrk! Showusyerknickers!' and Dibbler said he had no intention of making that kind of picture, at least at the moment.
Sound! Whoever got sound first would rule Holy Wood, they said. People were flocking to the clicks now, but people were fickle. Colour was different. Colour was just a matter of breeding demons who could paint fast enough. It was sound that meant something new.
In the meantime, there were stop-gap measures. The dwarfs' studio had shunned the general practice of putting the dialogue on cards between scenes and had invented sub-titles, which worked fine provided the performers remembered not to step too far forward and knock over the letters.
But if sound was missing, then the screen had to be filled from side to side with a feast for the eyes. The sound of hammering was always Holy Wood's background noise, but it redoubled now . . .
The cities of the world were being built in Holy Wood.
Untied Alchemists started it, with a one-tenth-size wood and canvas replica of the Great Pyramid of Tsort. Soon the backlots sprouted whole streets in Ankh-Morpork, palaces from Pseudopolis, castles from the Hublands. In some cases, the streets were painted on the back of the palaces, so that princes and peasants were separated by one thickness of painted sacking.
Victor spent the rest of the morning working on a one-reeler. Ginger hardly said a word to him, even after the obligatory kiss when he rescued her from whatever it was Morry was supposed to be today. Whatever magic Holy Wood worked on them it wasn't doing it today. He was glad to get away.
Afterwards he wandered across the backlot to watch them putting Laddie the Wonder Dog through his paces.
There was no doubt, as the graceful shape streaked like an arrow over obstacles and grabbed a trainer by a well-padded arm, that here was a dog almost designed by Nature for moving pictures. He even barked photogenically.
'An' do you know what he's sayin'?' said a disgruntled voice beside Victor. It was Gaspode, a picture of bowlegged misery.
n't want paying, Mr Dibbler.'
Gaspode relaxed.
'You don't want paying?'
'No, Mr Dibbler.'
'But you want a job when you get back, I suppose?' said Dibbler sarcastically.
Gaspode tensed. Victor had taken a lot of coaching.
'Well, I hope so, Mr Dibbler. But I was thinking of going to see what Untied Alchemists had to offer.'
There was a sound exactly like the sound of a chairback striking the wall. Gaspode grinned evilly.
Another bag of money was dropped in front of Soll.
'Untied Alchemists!'
'They really look as if they're making progress with soundies, Mr Dibbler,' said Victor meekly.
'But they're amateurs! And crooks!'
Gaspode frowned. He hadn't been able to coach Victor past this stage.