'Soll!' he shouted.
'We can't film at night, Uncle,' said the nephew hurriedly. 'The demons wouldn't be able to see. I don't see why we can't put up a card saying “Night-time” at the start of the scene, so that-'
'That's not the magic of moving pictures!' snapped Dibbler. 'That's just messing about!'
'Excuse me,' said Victor. 'Excuse me, but surely it doesn't matter, because surely the demons can paint the sky black with stars on it?'
There was a moment's silence. Then Dibbler looked- at Gaffer.
'Can they?' he said.
'Nah,' said the handleman. 'It's bloody. hard enough to make sure they paint what they do see, never mind what they don't.'
Dibbler rubbed his nose.
'I might be prepared to negotiate,' he said.
The handleman shrugged. 'You don't understand, Mr Dibbler. What'd they want money for? They'd only eat it. We start telling them to paint what isn't there, we're into all sorts of-'
'Perhaps it's just a very bright full moon?' said Ginger.
'That's good thinking,' said Dibbler. 'We'll do a card where Victor says to Ginger something like: “How bright the moon is tonight, bwana”.'
'Something like that,' said Soll diplomatically.
It was noon. Holy Wood Hill glistened under the sun, like a champagne-flavoured wine gum that had been half-sucked. The handlemen turned their handles, the extras charged enthusiastically backwards and forwards, Dibbler raged at everyone, and cinematographic history was made with a shot of three dwarfs, four men, two trolls and a dog all riding one camel and screaming in terror for it to stop.
Victor was introduced to the camel. It blinked its long eyelashes at him and appeared to chew soap. It was kneeling down and it looked like a camel that had had a long morning and wasn't about to take any shit from anyone. So far it had kicked three people.
'What's it called?' he said cautiously.
'We call it Evil-Minded Son of a Bitch,' said the newly-appointed Vice-President in Charge of Camels.
'That doesn't sound like a name.'
' 'S a good name for this camel,' said the handler fervently.
'There's nothin' wrong with bein' a son of a bitch,' said a voice behind him. 'I'm a son of a bitch. My father was a son of a bitch, you greasy nightshirt-wearin' bastard.'
The handler grinned nervously at Victor and turned around. There was no-one behind him. He looked down.
'Woof,' said Gaspode, and wagged what was almost a tail.
'Did you just hear someone say something?' said the handler carefully.
'No,' said Victor. He leaned close to one of the camel's ears and whispered, in case it was a special Holy Wood camel: 'Look, I'm a friend, OK?'
Evil-Minded Son of a Bitch flicked a carpet-thick ear.[11]
'How do you ride it?' he said.
'When you want to go forward you swear at it and hit it with a stick, and when you want to stop you swear at it and really hit it with a stick.'
'What happens if you want it to turn?'
'Ah, well, you're on to the Advanced Manual there. Best thing to do is get off and do it round by hand.'
'When you're ready!' Dibbler bellowed through his megaphone. 'Now, you ride up to the tent, leap off the camel, fight the huge eunuchs, burst into the tent, drag the girl out, get back on the camel and away. Got it? Think you ran do that?'