Gaspode trotted up to Ginger and pushed his nose against her leg.
The universe contains any amount of horrible ways to be woken up, such as the noise of the mob breaking down the front door, the scream of fire engines, or the realization that today is the Monday which on Friday night was a comfortably long way off. A dog's wet nose is not strictly speaking the worst of the bunch, but it has its own peculiar dreadfulness which connoisseurs of the ghastly and dog owners everywhere have come to know and dread. It's like having a small piece of defrosting liver pressed lovingly against you.
Ginger blinked. The glow faded from her eyes. She looked down, her expression of horror turning to astonishment and then, when she saw Gaspode leering up at her, back to a more mundane horror.
' 'Allo,' Gaspode said, ingratiatingly.
She backed away, bringing her hands up protectively. Sand dribbled between her fingers. Her eyes flickered towards it in bewilderment, and then back to Gaspode.
'Gods, that's horrible,' she said. 'What's going on? Why am I here?' Her hands flew to her mouth. 'Oh no,' she whispered, 'not again!'
She stared at him for a moment, glared up at the doorway, then turned, hitched up her nightdress, and hurried back to town through the morning mists.
Gaspode struggled after her, aware of anger in the air, desperately trying to put as much space as possible between the door and himself.
Sunnink dreadful in there, he thought. Prob'ly tentacled fings that rips your face off. I mean, when you finds mysterious doors in old hills, stands to reason wot comes out ain't going to be pleased to see you. Evil creatures wot Man shouldn't wot of, and here's one dog wot don't want to wot of them either. Why couldn't she . . .
He grumbled on towards the town.
Behind him the door moved the tiniest fraction of an inch.
Holy Wood was awake long before Victor, and the hammering from Century of the Fruitbat echoed around the sky. Waggonloads of timber were queuing up to enter the archway. He was buffeted and pushed aside by a hurrying stream of plasterers and carpenters. Inside, crowds of workmen scurried around the arguing figures of Silverfish and C.M.O.T. Dibbler.
Victor reached them just as Silverfish said, in astonished, tones, 'The whole city?'
'You can leave out the bits round the edge,' said Dibbler. 'But I want the whole of the centre. The palace, the University, the Guilds - everything that makes it a real city, understand? It's got to be right!'
He was red in the face. Behind him loomed Detritus the troll, patiently holding what appeared to be a bed over his head on one massive hand, like a waiter with a tray. Dibbler had the sheets in one hand. Then Victor realized that the whole bed, not just the sheets, was covered in writing.
'But the cost -' Silverfish protested.
'We'll find the money somehow,' said Dibbler calmly.
Silverfish couldn't have looked more horrified if Dibbler had worn a dress. He tried to rally.
'Well, if you're determined, Throat-'
'Right!'
'-I suppose, come to think of it, maybe we could amortize the cost over several clicks, maybe even hire it out afterwards-'
'What are you talking about?' demanded Dibbler. 'We're building it for Blown Away!'
'Yes, yes, of course,' said Silverfish soothingly. 'And then afterwards, we can-'
'Afterwards? There won't be any afterwards! Haven't you read the script? Detritus, show him the script!'
Detritus obligingly dropped the bed between them.
'It's your bed, Throat.'
'Script, bed, what's the difference? Look . . . here . . . just above the carving . . . '
There was a pause while Silverfish read. It was quite a long one. Silverfish wasn't used to reading matter that didn't come in columns with totals at the bottom. Eventually he said, 'You're going . . . to . . . set it on
'It's historical. You can't argue with history,' said Dibbler smugly. 'The city was burned down in the civil war, everyone knows that.'
Silverfish drew himself up. 'The city might have been,' he said stiffly, 'but I didn't have to find the budget for it! It's recklessly extravagant!'