‘Three times. Three performances. Like a sort of theatre?’ said Victor, running his finger down the page.
‘We can’t count up to three,’ said the rabbit sourly. ‘It goes one . . . many. Many times.’ He glared at Victor. ‘Mr Thumpy,’ it said, in withering tones.
‘And people from other places brought him fish,’ said Victor. ‘There’s no-one else living near here. They must have come from miles away. People sailed miles just to bring him fish. It’s as though he didn’t want to eat fish out of the bay here. And it’s teeming with them. When I went swimming I saw lobsters you wouldn’t believe.’
‘What did you name them?’ said Mr Thumpy, who wasn’t the kind of rabbit that forgot a grudge. ‘Mr Snappy
‘Yeah, I want this cleared up right now,’ squeaked the mouse. ‘Back home I was top mouse. I could lick any other mouse in the house. I want a proper name, kid. Anyone calls me Squeaky Boots’, he looked up at Victor, ‘is asking for a head shaped like a frying pan, do I make myself clear?’
The duck quacked at length.
‘Hold it,’ said Gaspode. ‘The thing is, the duck says,’ said Gaspode, ‘that all this is part of the same thing. Humans and trolls and everything coming here. Animals suddenly talking. The duck says he thinks it’s caused by something here.’
‘How does a duck know that?’ said Victor.
‘Look, friend,’ said the rabbit, ‘when you can fly all the way across the sea and even end up finding the same bloody continent, you can start badmouthing ducks.’
‘Oh,’ said Victor. ‘You mean mysterious animal senses, yes?’
They glared at him.
‘Anyway, it’s got to stop,’ said Gaspode. ‘All this cogitatin’ and talkin’ is all -right for you humans. You’re used to it. Fing is, see, someone’s got to find out what’s causin’ all this . . . ‘
They carried on glaring at him.
‘Well,’ he said, vaguely, ‘maybe the book can help? The early bits are in some sort of ancient language. I can’t-,’ he paused. Wizards weren’t welcomed in Holy Wood. It probably wasn’t a good idea to mention the University, or his small part in it. ‘That is,’ he continued, choosing his words with care, ‘I think I know someone in AnkhMorpork who might be able to read it. He’s an animal, too. An ape.’
‘How’s he in the mysterious senses department?’ said Gaspode.
‘He’s red hot on mysterious senses,’ said Victor.
‘In that case-‘ said the rabbit.
‘Hold it,’ said Gaspode. ‘Someone’s coming.’
A moving torch was visible coming up the hill. The duck rocketed clumsily into the sir and glided away. The others disappeared into the shadows. Only the dog didn’t move.
‘Aren’t you going to make yourself scarce?’ Victor hissed.
Gaspode raised an eyebrow.
‘Woof?’ he said.
The torch zig-zagged erratically among the scrub, like a firefly. Sometimes it would stop for a moment, and then wander away in some totally new direction. It was very bright.
‘What is it?’ said Victor.
Gaspode sniffed. ‘Human,’ he said. ‘Female. Wearin’ cheap scent.’ His nose twitched again. ‘It’s called Passion’s Plaything.’ He sniffed again. ‘Fresh laundry, no starch. Old shoes. Lot of studio make-up. She’s been in Borgle’s and had-‘ his nose twitched ‘-stoo. Not a big plate.’
‘I suppose you can tell how tall she is, can you?’ said Victor.
‘She smells about five foot two, two and a half,’ hazarded Gaspode.
‘Oh, come on!’
‘Walk a mile on these paws and call me a liar.’
Victor kicked sand over his little fire and strolled down the slope.
The light stopped moving as he approached it. For a moment he got a glimpse of a female figure clasping a shawl around her with one hand holding the torch high above her head. Then the light vanished so quickly it left blue and purple after-images dancing across his vision. Behind them, a small figure made a blacker shadow against the dusk.
It said, ‘What are you doing in my . . . what am I . . . why are you in . . . where . . . ,’ and then, as if it had finally got to grips with the situation, changed gear and in a much more familiar voice demanded, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Ginger?’ said Victor.
‘Yes?’
Victor paused. What were you supposed to say in circumstances like this?
‘Er . . . ‘ he said. ‘It’s nice up here in the evenings, don’t you think?’
She glared at Gaspode.
‘That’s that horrible dog who’s been hanging round the studio, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I can’t stand small dogs.’
‘Bark, bark,’ said Gaspode. Ginger stared at him. Victor could almost read her thoughts: he said Bark, bark. And he’s a dog, and that’s the kind of noise dogs make, isn’t it?
‘I’m a cat person, myself,’ she said, vaguely.
A low-level voice said: ‘Yeah? Yeah? Wash in your own spit, do you?’
‘What was that?’
Victor backed away, waving his hands frantically. ‘Don’t look at me!’ he said. ‘I didn’t say it!’
‘Oh? I suppose it was the dog, was it?’ she demanded.
‘Who, me?’ said Gaspode.
Ginger froze. Her eyes swivelled around and down, to where Gaspode was icily scratching an ear.
‘Woof?’ he said.
‘That dog spoke-‘ Ginger began, pointing a shaking finger at him.
‘I know,’ said Victor. ‘That means he likes you.’ He looked past her. Another light was coming up the hill.
‘Did you bring someone with you?’ he said.
‘Me?’ Ginger turned round.
Now the light was accompanied by the cracking of dry twigs, and Dibbler stepped out of the dusk with Detritus trailing behind like a particularly scary shadow.
‘Ah-ha!’ he said. ‘The lovebirds surprised, eh?’
Victor gaped at him. ‘The what?’ he said.
‘The what?’ said Ginger.
‘Been looking all over for you two,’ said Dibbler. ‘Someone said he’d seen you come up here. Very romantic. Could do something with that. Look good on the posters. Right.’ He draped his arms around them. ‘Come on,’ he said.
‘What for?’ said Victor.
‘We’re shooting first thing in the morning,’ said Dibbler.
‘But Mr Silverfish said I wasn’t going to work in this town again-‘ Victor began.
Dibbler opened his mouth, and hesitated just for a moment. ‘Ah. Yes. But I’m going to give you another chance,’ he said, speaking quite slowly for once. ‘Yeah. A chance. Like, you’re young people. Headstrong. Young once myself. Dibbler, I thought, even if it means cutting your own throat, give ’em a chance. Lower wages, of course. A dollar a day, how about that?’
Victor saw the look of sudden hope on Ginger’s face.
He opened his mouth.
‘Fifteen dollars,’ said a voice. It wasn’t his.
He shut his mouth.
‘What?’ said Dibbler.
Victor opened his mouth.
‘Fifteen dollars. Renegot’ble after a week. Fifteen dollars or nuffin’.’
Victor shut his mouth, his eyes rolling.
Dibbler waved a finger under his nose, and then hesitated.
‘I like it!’ he said eventually. ‘Tough bargainer! OK. Three dollars.’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Five’s my last offer, kid. There’s thousands of people down there who’d jump at it, right?’
‘Name two, Mr Dibbler.’
Dibbler glanced at Detritus, who was lost in a reverie concerning Ruby, and then stared at Ginger.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Ten. Because I like you. But it’s cutting my own throat.’
‘Done.’
Throat held out a hand. Victor stared at his own as if he was seeing it for the first time, and then shook.
‘And now let’s get back down,’ said Dibbler. ‘Lot to organize.’
He strode off through the trees. Victor and Ginger followed meekly behind him, in a state of shock.
‘Are you crazy?’ Ginger hissed. ‘Holding out like that! We could have lost our chance!’
‘I didn’t say anything! I thought it was you!’ said Victor.
‘It was you!’ said Ginger.
Their eyes met.
They looked down.
‘Bark, bark,’ said Gaspode the Wonder Dog.
Dibbler turned round.
‘What’s that noise?’ he said.
‘Oh, it’s – it’s just this dog we found,’ said Victor hurriedly. ‘He’s called Gaspode. After the famous Gaspode, you know.’
‘He does tricks,’ said Ginger, malevolently.
‘A performing dog?’ Dibbler reached down and patted Gaspode’s bullet head.
‘Growl, growl.’
‘You’d be amazed, the things he can do,’ said Victor.
‘Amazed,’ echoed Ginger.
‘Ugly devil, though,’ said Dibbler. He gave Gaspode a long, slow stare, which was like challenging a centipede to an arse-kicking contest. Gaspode could outstare a mirror.
Dibbler seemed to be turning an idea over in his mind. ‘Mind you . . . bring him along in the morning. People like a good laugh,’ said Dibbler.
‘Oh, he’s a laugh all right,’ said Victor. ‘A scream.’
As they walked off Victor heard a quiet voice behind him say, ‘I’ll get you for that. Anyway, you owe me a dollar.’
‘What for?’
‘Agent’s fee,’ said Gaspode the Wonder Dog.
Over Holy Wood, the stars were out. They were huge balls of hydrogen heated to millions of degrees, so hot they could not even burn. Many of them would swell enormously before they died, and then shrink to tiny, resentful dwarfs remembered only by sentimental astronomers. In the meantime, they glowed because of metamorphoses beyond the reach of alchemists, and turned mere boring elements into pure light.