Moving Pictures - Terry Pratchett [86]
The real city had been burned down many times in its long history—out of revenge, or carelessness, or spite, or even just for the insurance. Most of the big stone buildings that actually made it a city, as opposed simply to a load of hovels all in one place, survived them intact and many people22 considered that a good fire every hundred years or so was essential to the health of the city since it helped to keep down the rats, roaches, fleas and, of course, people not rich enough to live in stone houses.
The famous Fire during the Civil War had been noteworthy simply because it was started by both sides at the same time in order to stop the city falling into enemy hands.
It had not otherwise, according to the history books, been very impressive. The Ankh had been particularly high that summer, and most of the city had been too damp to burn.
This time it was a lot better.
Flames poured into the sky. Because this was Holy Wood, everything burned, because the only difference between the stone buildings and the wooden buildings was what was painted on the canvas. The two-dimensional Unseen University burned. The Patrician’s backless palace burned. Even the scale-model Tower of Art gushed flames like a roman candle.
Dibbler watched it with concern.
After a while Soll, behind him, said, “Waiting for something, Uncle?”
“Hmm? Oh, no. I hope Gaffer’s concentrating on the tower, that’s all,” said Dibbler. “Very important symbolic landmark.”
“It certainly is,” said Soll. “Very important. So important, in fact, that I sent some lads up it at lunchtime just to make sure it was all OK.”
“You did?” said Dibbler, guiltily.
“Yes. And do you know what they found? They found someone had nailed some fireworks to the outside. Lots and lots of fireworks, on fuses. It’s a good thing they found them because if the things had gone off it would have ruined the shot and we’d never be able to do it again. And, do you know, they said it looked as though the fireworks would spell out words?” Soll added.
“What words?”
“Never crossed my mind to ask them,” said Soll. “Never crossed my mind.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets and began to whistle under his breath. After a while he glanced sidelong at his uncle.
“‘Hottest ribs in town,’” he muttered. “Really!”
Dibbler looked sulky. “It would have got a laugh, anyway,” he said.
“Look, Uncle, this can’t go on,” said Soll. “No more of this commercial messing about, right?”
“Oh, all right.”
“Sure?”
Dibbler nodded. “I’ve said all right, haven’t I?”
“I want a bit more than that, Uncle.”
“I solemnly promise not to do anymore meddling in the click,” said Dibbler gravely. “I’m your uncle. I’m family. Is that good enough for you?”
“Well. All right.”
When the fire had died down they raked some of the ashes together for a barbecue at the end-of-shooting party, under the stars.
The velvet sheet of the night drapes itself over the parrot cage that is Holy Wood, and on warm nights like this there are many people with private business to pursue.
A young couple, strolling hand in hand across the dunes, were frightened to near insensibility when an enormous troll jumped out at them from behind a rock waving its arms and shouting “Aaaargh!”
“Scared you, did I?” said Detritus, hopefully.
They nodded, white-faced.
“Well, that’s a relief,” said the troll. He patted them on the heads, forcing their feet a little way into the sand. “Thanks very much. Much obliged. Have a nice night,” he added mournfully.
He watched them walk off hand in hand, and then burst into tears.
In the handlemen’s shed, C.M.O.T. Dibbler stood watching thoughtfully as Gaffer pasted together the day’s footage. The handleman was feeling very gratified; Mr. Dibbler had never shown the slightest interest in the actual techniques of film handling before now. This may have explained why he was a little freer than usual with Guild secrets that had been handed down sideways from one generation to the same generation.
“Why are all the little pictures alike?” said Dibbler, as the handleman