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.
'No. What?' said Victor.
“'Me Laddie. Me good boy. Good boy Laddie,”' said Gaspode. 'Makes you want to throw up, doesn't it?'
'Yes, but could you leap a six-foot hurdle?' said Victor.
'That's intelligent, is it?' said Gaspode. 'I always walk around - what's that they're doing now?'
'Giving him his lunch, I think.'
'They call that lunch, do they?'
Victor watched Gaspode stroll over and peer into the dog's bowl. Laddie gave him a sideways look. Gaspode barked quietly. Laddie whined. Gaspode barked again.
There was a lengthy exchange of yaps.
Then Gaspode strolled back, and sat down beside Victor.
'Watch this,' he said.
Laddie took the food bowl in his mouth, and turned it upside down.
'Disgustin' stuff,' said Gaspode. 'All tubes and innards. I wouldn't give it to a dog, and I am one.'
'You made him tip out his own dinner?' said Victor, horrified.
'Very obedient lad, I thought,' said Gaspode smugly.
'What a nasty thing to do!'
'Oh, no. I give 'im some advice, too.'
Laddie barked peremptorily at the people clustering around him. Victor heard them muttering.
'Dog don't eat his dinner,' came Detritus' voice, 'dog go hungry.'
'Don't be daft. Mr Dibbler says he's worth more than we are!'
'Perhaps it's not what he's used to. I mean, a posh dog like him an' all. It's a bit yukky, isn't it?'