Ginger began to climb the lower slopes of the hill.
Gaspode considered barking loudly, and then if anyone drew attention to this afterwards he could always say it was to frighten her. Trouble was, he had about enough wind left for a threatening wheeze.
Ginger topped a rise and went down into the little dell among the trees.
Gaspode staggered after her, righted himself, opened his mouth to whimper a warning, and almost swallowed his tongue.
The door had opened several inches. More sand rolled down the heap even as Gaspode watched.
And he could hear voices. They didn’t seem to be speaking words but the bones of words, meaning without disguise. They hummed around his bullet head like mendicant mosquitoes, begging and cajoling and
-he was the most famous dog in the world. The knots unravelled from his coat, the frayed patches sprouted glossy curls, his fur grew on his suddenly-supple frame and withdrew from his teeth. Plates appeared in front of him not laden with the multi-coloured and mysterious organs that he was normally expected to eat but with dark red steak. There was sweet water, no, there was beer in a bowl with his name on it. Tantalizing odours on the air suggested that a number of lady dogs would be happy to make his acquaintance after he had drunk and dined. Thousands of people thought he was marvellous. He had a collar with his name on it, and –
No, that couldn’t be right. Not a collar. It’d be a squeaky toy next, if you dint draw the line at collars.
The image collapsed in confusion, and now –
– the pack bounded through the dark, snow-covered trees, falling in behind him, red mouths agape, long legs eating up the road. The fleeing humans on the sledge didn’t have a chance; one was thrown aside when a runner bounced off a branch, and lay screaming in the road as Gaspode and the wolves fell upon –
No, that wasn’t right, he thought wretchedly. You dint actually eat humans. They got up your nose all right, the gods knew, but you couldn’t acktually eat ’em.
A confusion of instincts threatened to short-circuit his schizophrenically doggy mind.
The voices gave up their assault in disgust and turned their attention to Ginger, who was methodically trying to shift more sand.
One of Gaspode’s fleas bit him sharply. It was probably dreaming of being the biggest flea in the world. His leg came up automatically to scratch it, and the spell faded.
He blinked.
‘Bloody hell,’ he whined.
This is what’s happening to the humans! Wonder what they’re making her dream?
The hairs rose along Gaspode’s back.
You didn’t need any special mysterious animal instincts here. Perfectly generalized everyday instincts were enough to horrify him. There was something dreadful on the other side of the door.
She was trying to let it out.
He had to wake her up.
Biting wasn’t really a good idea. His teeth weren’t that good these days. He doubted very much if barking would be any better. That left one alternative . . .
The sand moved eerily under his paws; maybe it was dreaming of being rocks. The scrawny trees around the hollow were wrapped in sequoia fantasies. Even the air that curled around Gaspode’s bullet head moved sluggishly, although it’s anyone’s guess what the air dreams about.
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!’
‘I’ll pay for it somehow,’ said Dibbler, calmly.
‘In a word – im-possible!’
‘That’s two words,’ said Dibbler.
‘There’s no way I can work on something like this,’ said Silverfish, ignoring the interruption. ‘I’ve tried to see your point of view, haven’t I? But you’ve taken moving pictures and you’re trying to turn them into, into, into dreams. I never wanted them to be like this! Include me out!’
‘OK.’ Dibbler looked up at the troll.
‘Mr Silverfish was just leaving,’ he said. Detritus nodded, and then slowly and firmly picked up Silverfish by his collar.
Silverfish went white. ‘You can’t get rid of me like that,’ he said.
‘You want to bet?’
‘There won’t be an alchemist in Holy Wood who’ll work for you! We’ll take the handlemen with us! You’ll be finished!’
‘Listen! After this click the whole of Holy Wood will be coming to me for a job! Detritus, throw this bum out!’
‘Right you are, Mr Dibbler,’ rumbled the troll, gripping Silverfish’s collar.
‘You haven’t heard the last of this, you – you scheming, devious megalomaniac!’
Dibbler removed his cigar.
‘That’s Mister Megalomaniac to you,’ he said.
He replaced the cigar, and nodded significantly to the troll, who gently but firmly grasped Silverfish by a leg as well.
‘You lay a finger on me and you’ll never work in this town again!’ shouted Silverfish.