'Fascinating,' said the Patrician, and went back to not listening to Dibbler. He had not got where he was today by bothering how things worked. It was how people worked that intrigued him.
Further along the row Soll leaned across to his uncle and dropped a small coil of film in his lap.
'This belongs to you,' he said sweetly.
'What is it?' said Dibbler.
'Well I thought I'd have a quick look at the click before it got shown-'
'You did?' said Dibbler.
'And what did I find, in the middle of the burning city scene, but five minutes showing nothing but a plate of spare ribs in Harga's Special Peanut Sauce. I know why, of course. I just want to know why this.'
Dibbler grinned guiltily. 'The way I see it,' he said, 'if one little quick picture can make people want to go and buy things, just think what five minutes' worth could do.'
Soll stared at him. .
'I'm really hurt by this,' said Dibbler. 'You didn't trust me. Your own uncle. After I gave you my solemn promise not to try anything again, you didn't trust me? That wounds me, Soll. I'm really wounded. Whatever happened to integrity round here?'
'I think you probably sold it to someone, Uncle.'
'I'm really hurt,' said Dibbler.
'But you didn't keep your promise, Uncle.'
'That's got nothing to do with it. That's just business. We're talking family here. You got to learn to trust family, Soll. Especially me.'
Soll shrugged. 'OK. OK.'
'Right?'
'Yes, Uncle.' Soll grinned. 'You've got my solemn promise on that.'
'That's my boy.'
At the other end of the row, Victor and Ginger were staring at the blank screen in sullen horror.
'You know what's going to happen now, don't you,' said Ginger.
'Yes. Someone's going to start playing music out of a hole in the floor.'
'Was that cave really a picture pit?'
'Sort of, I think,' said Victor, carefully.
'But the screen here is just a screen. It's not . . . well, it's just a screen. Just a better class of sheet. It's not -'
There There was a blast of sound from the front of the hall. With a clanking and the hiss of desperately escaping air, Bezam's daughter Calliope rose slowly out of the floor, attacking the keys on a small organ with all the verve of several hours' practice and the combined efforts of two strong trolls working the bellows behind the scenes. She was a beefy young woman and, whatever piece of music she was playing, it was definitely losing.
Down in the stalls, the Dean passed a bag along to the Chair.
'Have a chocolate-covered raisin,' he said.
'They look like rat droppings,' said the Chair.
The Dean peered at them in the gloom.
'So that's it,' he said. 'The bag fell on the floor a minute ago, and I thought there seemed rather a lot.'