Moving pictures

'Right, gather round, people,' shouted Dibbler through a

megaphone. 'Sons of the Desert over there, please. The slave

girls where are the slave girls? Right. Handlemen?-'

'I've never seen so many people in a click,' Ginger whispered. 'It must be costing more than a hundred dollars!'

Victor eyed the Sons of the Desert. It looked as though Dibbler had dropped in at Borgle's and hired the twenty people nearest the door, irrespective of their appropriateness, and had given them each Dibbler's idea of a desert bandit headdress. There were trollish Sons of the Desert Rock recognized him, and gave him a little wave dwarf Sons of the Desert and, shuffling into the end of the line, a small, hairy and furiously-scratching Son in a headdress that reached down to his paws.

' . . . grab her, become entranced by her beauty, and then throw her over your pommel.' Dibbler's voice intruded into his consciousness.

Victor desperately re-ran the half-heard instructions past his mind.

'My what?' he said.

'It's part of your saddle,' Ginger hissed.

'Oh.'

'And then you ride into the night, with all the Sons following you and singing rousing desert bandit songs-'

'No-one'll hear them,' said Soll helpfully. 'But if they open and shut their mouths it'll help create a, you know, amby-ance.'

'But it isn't night,' said Ginger. 'It's broad daylight.'

Dibbler stared at her.

His mouth opened once or twice.

'Soll!' he shouted.

'We can't film at night, Uncle,' said the nephew hurriedly. 'The demons wouldn't be able to see. I don't see why we can't put up a card saying "Night-time" at the start of the scene, so that-'

'That's not the magic of moving pictures!' snapped Dibbler. 'That's just messing about!'

'Excuse me,' said Victor. 'Excuse me, but surely it doesn't matter, because surely the demons can paint the sky black with stars on it?'

There was a moment's silence. Then Dibbler lookedat Gaffer.

'Can they?' he said.

'Nah,' said the handleman. 'It's bloody. hard enough to make sure they paint what they do see, never mind what they don't.'

Dibbler rubbed his nose.

'I might be prepared to negotiate,' he said.

The handleman shrugged. 'You don't understand, Mr Dibbler. What'd they want money for? They'd only eat it. We start telling them to paint what isn't there, we're into all sorts of-'

'Perhaps it's just a very bright full moon?' said Ginger.

'That's good thinking,' said Dibbler. 'We'll do a card where Victor says to Ginger something like: "How bright the moon is tonight, bwana".'

'Something like that,' said Soll diplomatically.

It was noon. Holy Wood Hill glistened under the sun, like a champagne-flavoured wine gum that had been half-sucked. The handlemen turned their handles, the extras charged enthusiastically backwards and forwards, Dibbler raged at everyone, and cinematographic history was made with a shot of three dwarfs, four men, two trolls and a dog all riding one camel and screaming in terror for it to stop.

Victor was introduced to the camel. It blinked its long eyelashes at him and appeared to chew soap. It was kneeling down and it looked like a camel that had had a long morning and wasn't about to take any shit from anyone. So far it had kicked three people.

'What's it called?' he said cautiously.

'We call it Evil-Minded Son of a Bitch,' said the newly-appointed Vice-President in Charge of Camels.

'That doesn't sound like a name.'

' 'S a good name for this camel,' said the handler fervently.

'There's nothin' wrong with bein' a son of a bitch,' said a voice behind him. 'I'm a son of a bitch. My father was a son of a bitch, you greasy nightshirt-wearin' bastard.'

The handler gri

'Woof,' said Gaspode, and wagged what was almost a tail.

'Did you just hear someone say something?' said the handler carefully.

'No,' said Victor. He leaned close to one of the camel's ears and whispered, in case it was a special Holy Wood camel: 'Look, I'm a friend, OK?'

Evil-Minded Son of a Bitch flicked a carpet-thick ear. [11]

'How do you ride it?' he said.

'When you want to go forward you swear at it and hit it with a stick, and when you want to stop you swear at it and really hit it with a stick.'

'What happens if you want it to turn?'

'Ah, well, you're on to the Advanced Manual there. Best thing to do is get off and do it round by hand.'

'When you're ready!' Dibbler bellowed through his megaphone. 'Now, you ride up to the tent, leap off the camel, fight the huge eunuchs, burst into the tent, drag the girl out, get back on the camel and away. Got it? Think you ran do that?'

'What huge eunuchs?' said Victor, as the camel unfolded itself upwards.

One of the huge eunuchs shyly raised a hand.

'It's me. Morry,' it said.

'Oh. Hi, Morry.'

'Hi, Vic.,

'And me, Rock,' said a second huge eunuch.

'Hi, Rock.'

'Hi, Vic.'

'Places, everyone,' said Dibbler. 'We'll what is it, Rock?'

'Er, I was just wondering, Mr Dibbler . . . what is my motivation for this scene?'

'Motivation?'

'Yes. Er. I got to know, see,' said Rock.

'How about: I'll fire you if you don't do it properly?'

Rock gri

'OK,' said Dibbler. 'Everyone ready . . . turn 'em!'

Evil-minded Son of a Bitch turned awkwardly, legs flailing at odd camel angles, and then lumbered into a complicated trot. The handle turned . . .

The air glittered.

And Victor awoke. It was like rising slowly out of a pink cloud, or a magnificent dream which, try as you might, drains out of your mind as the daylight shuffles in, leaving a terrible sense of loss; nothing, you know instinctively, nothing you're going to experience for the rest of the day is going to be one half as good as that dream.

He blinked. The images faded away. He was aware of

an ache in his muscles, as if he'd recently been really exerting himself.

'What happened?' he mumbled.

He looked down.

'Wow,' he said. An expanse of barely-clad buttock occupied a view recently occupied by the camel's neck. It was an improvement.

'Why', said Ginger icily, 'am I lying on a camel?'

'Search me. Didn't you want to?'

She slid down on to the sand and tried to adjust her costume.

At this point they both became aware of the audience.

There was Dibbler. There was Dibbler's nephew. There was the handleman. There were the extras. There were the assorted vicepresidents and other people who are apparently called into existence by the mere presence of moving-picture creation. [12] There was Gaspode the Wonder Dog.

11

Camels are far too intelligent to admit to being intelligent.

12

Some of them have clipboards.