Moving pictures

Nothing happened for a wholeday. Then, in a little hollow on the edge of the brooding hill, a few grains of sand shifted and left a tiny hole.

Something emerged. Something invisible. Something joyful and selfish and marvellous. Something as intangible as an idea, which is exactly what it was. A wild idea.

It was old in a way not measurable by any calendar known to Man and what it had, right now, was memories and needs. It remembered life, in other times and other universes. It needed people.

It rose against the stars, changing shape, coiling like smoke.

There were lights on the horizon.

It liked lights.

It regarded them for a few seconds and then, like an invisible arrow, extended itself towards the city and sped away.

It liked action, too...

And several weeks went past.

There's a saying that all roads lead to Ankh-Morpork, greatest of Discworld cities.

At least, there's a saying that there's a saying that all roads lead to Ankh-Morpork.

And it's wrong. All roads lead away from Ankh-Morpork, but sometimes people just walk along them the wrong way.

Poets long ago gave up trying to describe the city. Now the more cu

Every so often a ruler of the city builds a wall around Ankh-Morpork, ostensibly to keep enemies out. But Ankh-Morpork doesn't fear enemies. In fact it welcomes enemies, provided they are enemies with money to spend.[2] It has survived flood, fire, hordes, revolutions and dragons. Sometimes by accident, admittedly, but it has survived them. The cheerful and irrecoverably venal spirit of the city has been proof against anything ...

Until now.

Boom.

The explosion removed the windows, the door and most of the chimney.

It was the sort of thing you expected in the Street of Alchemists. The neighbours preferred explosions, which were at least identifiable and soon over. They were better than the smells, which crept up on you.Explosions were part of the scenery, such as was left.

And this one was pretty good, even by the standards of local co

Boom.

A minute or two after the explosion a figure lurched out of the ragged hole where the door had been. It had no hair, and what clothes it still had were on fire.

It staggered up to the small crowd that was admiring the devastation and by chance laid a sooty hand on a hot-meat-pie-and-sausage-in-a-bun salesman called Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, who had an almost magical ability to turn up wherever a sale might be made.

'Looking,' it said, in a dreamy, stu

'Blister?' volunteered Throat.

He recovered his commercial senses. 'After an experience like that,' he added, proffering a pastry case full of so much reclaimed organic debris that it was very nearly sapient, 'what you need is to get a hot meat pie inside you-'

'Nonono. 'S not blister. 'S what you say when you've discovered something. You goes ru

The crowd, reluctantly satisfied that there were going to be no more explosions, gathered around. This might be nearly as good.

'Yeah, that's right,' said an elderly man, filling his pipe. 'You runs out shouting "Fire! Fire!" ' He looked triumphant.

' 'S not that ... '

'Or "Help!" or-'

'No, he's right,' said a woman with a basket of fish on her head. 'There's a special word. It's foreign.'

'Right, right,' said her neighbour. 'Special foreign word for people who've discovered something. It was invented by some foreign bugger in his bath-'

'Well,' said the pipe man, lighting it off the alchemist's smouldering hat, 'I for one don't see why people in this city need to go round shouting heathen lingo just 'cos they've had a bath. Anyway, look at him. He ain't had a bath. He needs a bath, yes, but he ain't had one. What's he want to go round shouting foreign lingo for? We've got perfectly satisfactory words for shoutin'.'

'Like what?' said Cut-me-own-Throat:

The pipe-smoker hesitated. 'Well,' he said, 'like ... "I've discovered something" ... or ... "Hooray" ... '

'No, I'm thinking about the bugger over Tsort way, or somewhere. He was in his bath and he had this idea for something, and he ran out down the street yelling.'

'Yelling what?'

'Du

'Bet he'd be yellin' all right if he tried that sort of thing round here,' said Throat cheerfully. 'Now, ladies and gents, I have here some sausage in a bun that'd make your-'

'Eureka,' said the soot-coloured one, swaying back and forth.

'What about it?' said Throat.

'No, that's the word. Eureka.' A worried grin spread across the black features. 'It means "I have it".'

'Have what?' said Throat.

'It. At least, I had it. Octo-cellulose. Amazing stuff. Had it in my hand. But I held it too close to the fire,' said the figure, in the perplexed tones of the nearly concussed. 'V'ry important fact. Mus' make a note of it. Don't let it get hot. V'ry important. Mus' write down v'ry important fact.'

He tottered back into the smoking ruins.

Dibbler watched him go.

'Wonder what that was all about?' he said. Then he shrugged and raised his voice to a shout. 'Meat pies! Hot sausages! I

The glittering, swirling idea from the hill had watched all this. The alchemist didn't even know it was there. All he knew was that he was being unusually inventive today.

Now it had spotted the pie merchant's mind.

It knew that kind of mind. It loved minds like that. A mind that could sell nightmare pies could sell dreams.

It leaped.

On a hill far away the breeze stirred the cold, grey ash.

Further down the hill, in a crack in a hollow between two rocks where a dwarf juniper bush struggled for a Ping, a little trickle of sand began to move.

1

This is the one that grows only in certain parts of heathen Howondaland. It's twenty feet long, covered in spikes the colour of ear wax, and smells like an anteater that's eaten a very bad ant.

2

In fact the Guild of Merchants' famous publication Wellcome to Ankh-Morporke, Citie of One Thousand Surprises now has an entire section entitled 'Soe you're a Barbaeriean Invader?' which has notes on night life, folklorique bargains in the bazaar and, under the heading 'Steppe-ing Out', a list of restaurants that do a dependable mares' milk and yak pudding. And many a pointedhelmeted vandal has trotted back to his freezing yurt wondering why he seems to be a great deal poorer and the apparent owner of a badly-woven rug, a litre of undrinkable wine and a stuffed purple donkey in a straw hat.