Moving Pictures (Discworld 10)

'Trying to keep It from getting to the Library,' said the Dean, peering through the rain that was beginning to thud on the cobbles. 'To stay alive in reality, Things need magic to hold themselves together. They've got no natural morphogenic field, you see, and-'

'Do something! Blow it up with magic!' shouted Ginger. 'Oh, that poor monkey!'

'We can't use magic! That's like pouring oil on a fire!' snapped the Dean. 'Besides . . . I don't know how you go about blowing up a fifty-foot woman. It's not the sort of thing I've ever been called upon to do.'

heading for the Library!' he repeated. 'You've got to stop it! If it gets there the magic'll make it invincible! We'll never beat it! It'll be able to bring others!'

'You're wizards,' said Ginger. 'Why don't you stop it?'

Victor shook his head. 'The Things like our magic,' he said. 'If you use it anywhere around them, it only makes them stronger. But I don't see what I can do . . . '

His voice trailed off. The crowd was watching him expectantly.

They weren't looking at him as if he was their only hope. They were looking at him is if he was their certainty.

He heard a small child say, 'What happens now, Mum?'

The fat woman holding it said, authoritatively, 'It's easy. He rushes up and stops it just at the last minute. Happens every time. Seen him do it before.'

'I've never done it before!' said Victor.

'Saw you do it,' said the woman smugly. 'In Sons of the Dessert. When this lady here', she gave a brief curtsey in the direction of Ginger, 'was on that horse what threw her over the cliff, and you galloped up and grabbed her at the last minute. Very impressive, I thought.'

'That wasn't Sons of the Dessert,' said an elderly man pedantically, while he filled his pipe, 'that was Valley of the Trolls.'

'It was Sons,' said a thin woman behind him. 'I should know, I watched it twenty-seven times.'

'Yes, it was very good, wasn't it,' said the first woman. 'Every time I see a scene where she leaves him and he turns to her and gives her that look, I burst into tears-'

'Excuse me, but that wasn't Sons of the Dessert,' said the man, speaking slowly and deliberately. 'You're thinking of the famous plaza scene in Burninge Passiones.'

The fat woman took Ginger's unresisting hand and patted it.

'You've got a good man there,' she said. 'The way he always rescues you every time. If I was being dragged off by mad trolls my ole man wouldn't say a word except to ask where I wanted my clothes sent.'

'My husband wouldn't get out of his chair if I was being et by dragons,' said the thin woman. She gave Ginger a gentle prod. 'But you want to wear more clothes, miss. Next time you're taken off to be rescued, you insist they let you take a warm coat. I never see you on the screen without thinking to myself, she's temptin' a dose of 'flu, going around like that.'

'Where's 'is sword?' said the child, kicking its mother on the shin.

'I expect he'll be off to fetch it directly,' she said, giving Victor an encouraging smile.

'Er. Yes,' he said. 'Come on, Ginger.' He grabbed her hand.

'Give the lad room,' shouted the pipe smoker authoritatively.

A space cleared around them. Ginger and Victor saw a thousand expectant faces watching them.

'They think we're real,' moaned Ginger. 'No-one's doing anything because they think you're a hero, for gods' sake! And we can't do anything! This Thing is bigger than both of us!'

Victor stared down at the damp cobblestones. I can probably remember some magic, he thought, but ordinary magic's no good against the Dungeon Dimensions. And I'm pretty sure real heroes don't hang around in the middle of cheering crowds. They get on with the job. Real heroes are like poor old Gaspode. No-one ever notices them until afterwards. That's the reality.'

He raised his head slowly.

Or is this the reality?

The air crackled. There was another kind of magic. It was snapping wildly in the world now, like a broken film. If only he could grab it . . .

Reality didn't have to be real. Maybe if conditions were right, it just had to be what people believed . . .