Moving Pictures - Terry Pratchett [59]
Gaspode sat stolidly by the door to the inner office. In the past five minutes he had attracted one half-hearted kick, a soggy biscuit and a pat on the head. He reckoned he was ahead of the game, dogwise.
He was trying to listen to all the conversation at once. It was extremely instructive. For one thing, some of the people coming in and shouting were carrying bags of money…
“You what?”
The shout had come from the inner office. Gaspode cocked the other ear.
“I, er, want a day off, Mr Dibbler,” said Victor.
“A day off? You don’t want to work?”
“Just for the day, Mr Dibbler.”
“But you don’t think I’m going to go around paying people to have days off, do you? I’m not made of money, you know. It’s not as if we make a profit, even. Hold a crossbow to my head, why don’t you.”
Gaspode looked at the bags in front of Soll, who was furiously adding up piles of coins. He raised a cynical eyebrow.
There was a pause. Oh, no, thought Gaspode. The young idiot’s forgetting his lines.
“I don’t want paying, Mr Dibbler.”
Gaspode relaxed.
“You don’t want paying?”
“No, Mr. Dibbler.”
“But you want a job when you get back, I suppose?” said Dibbler sarcastically.
Gaspode tensed. Victor had taken a lot of coaching.
“Well, I hope so, Mr. Dibbler. But I was thinking of going to see what Untied Alchemists had to offer.”
There was a sound exactly like the sound of a chairback striking the wall. Gaspode grinned evilly.
Another bag of money was dropped in front of Soll.
“Untied Alchemists!”
“They really look as if they’re making progress with soundies, Mr. Dibbler,” said Victor meekly.
“But they’re amateurs! And crooks!”
Gaspode frowned. He hadn’t been able to coach Victor past this stage.
“Well, that’s a relief, Mr. Dibbler.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, it’d be dreadful if they were crooks and professional.”
Gaspode nodded. Nice one. Nice one.
There was the sound of footsteps hurrying around a desk. When Dibbler spoke next, you could have sunk a well in his voice and sold it at ten dollars a barrel.
“Victor! Vic! Haven’t I been like an uncle to you?”
Well, yes, thought Gaspode. He’s like an uncle to most people here. That’s because they’re his nephews.
He stopped listening, partly because Victor was going to get his day off and was very likely going to get paid for it as well, but mainly because another dog had been led into the room.
It was huge and glossy. Its coat shone like honey.
Gaspode recognized it as pure-bred Ramtop hunting dog. When it sat down beside him, it was as if a beautifully sleek racing yacht had slipped into a berth alongside a coal barge.
He heard Soll say, “So that is Uncle’s latest idea, is it? What’s it called?”
“Laddie,” said the handler.
“How much was it?”
“Sixty dollars.”
“For a dog? We’re in the wrong business.”
“It can do all kinds of tricks, the breeder said. Bright as a button, he said. Just what Mr. Dibbler is looking for.”
“Well, tie it up there. And if that other mutt starts a fight, kick it out.”
Gaspode gave Soll a long, thoughtful scrutiny. Then, when the attention was no longer on them, he sidled closer to the newcomer, looked it up and down, and spoke quietly out of the corner of his mouth.
“What you here for?” he said.
The dog gave him a look of handsome incomprehension.
“I mean, do you b’long to someone or what?” said Gaspode.
The dog whined softly.
Gaspode tried Basic Canine, which is a combination of whines and sniffs.
“Hallo?” he ventured. “Anyone in there?”
The dog’s tail thumped uncertainly.
“The grub here’s ruddy awful,” said Gaspode.
The dog raised its highly-bred muzzle.
“What dis place?” it said.
“This is Holy Wood,” said Gaspode conversationally. “I’m Gaspode. Named after the famous Gaspode, you know. Anythin’ you want to know, you just—”
“All dese two-legs here. Dur…What dis place?”
Gaspode stared.
At that moment Dibbler’s door opened. Victor emerged, coughing, at one end of a cigar.
“Great, great,” said Dibbler, following him out. “Knew we could sort it out. Don’t waste it, boy,