Moving Pictures by Terry Pratchett Page A

Then the gatekeeper turned an angry red face toward him.
    “You,” he said, “get to the end of the queue. And stay there!”
    Victor stared at him. He stared at the gate. He looked at the long line of dispirited people.
    “Um, no,” he said. “I don’t think so. Thanks all the same.”
    “Then beat it!”
    Victor gave him a friendly smile. He walked to the end of the fence, and followed it. It turned, at the far end, into a narrow alley.
    Victor searched among the usual alley debris for a while until he found a piece of scrap paper. Then he rolled up his sleeves. And only then did he inspect the fence carefully until he found a couple of loose boards that, with a bit of effort, let him through.
    This brought him into an area stacked with lumber and piles of cloth. There was no one around.
    Walking purposefully, in the knowledge that no one with their sleeves rolled up who walks purposefully with a piece of paper held conspicuously in their hand is ever challenged, he set out across the wood and canvas wonderland of Interesting and Instructive Kinematography.
    There were buildings painted on the back of other buildings. There were trees that were trees, at the front, and just a mass of struts at the back. There was a flurry of activity although, as far as Victor could see, no one was actually producing anything.
    He watched a man in a long black cloak, a black hat and a mustache like a yard brush tie a girl to one of the trees. No one seemed interested in stopping him, even though she was struggling. A couple of people were in fact watching disinterestedly, and there was a man standing behind a large box on a tripod, turning a handle.
    She flung out an imploring arm and opened and shut her mouth soundlessly.
    One of the watchers stood up, sorted through a stack of boards beside him, and held one up in front of the box.
    It was black. On it, in white, were the words “Noe! Noe!”
    He walked away. The villain twirled his mustache. The man walked back with a board. This time it said “Ahar! My proude beauty!”
    Another of the seated watchers picked up a megaphone.
    “Fine, fine,” he said. “OK, take a five minutes break and then everyone back here for the big fight scene.”
    The villain untied the girl. They wandered off. The man stopped turning the handle, lit a cigarette, and then opened the top of the box.
    “Everyone get that?” he said.
    There was a chorus of squeaks.
    Victor walked over and tapped the megaphone man on his shoulder.
    “Urgent message for Mr. Silverfish?” he said.
    “He’s in the offices over there,” said the man, jerking his thumb over his shoulder without looking around.
    “Thank you.”
    The first shed he poked his head into contained nothing but rows of small cages stretching away into the gloom. Indistinct things hurled themselves against the bars and chittered at him. He slammed the door hurriedly.
    The next door revealed Silverfish, standing in front of a desk covered with bits of glassware and drifts of paper. He didn’t turn around.
    “Just put it over there,” he said absently.
    “It’s me, Mr. Silverfish,” said Victor.
    Silverfish turned around and peered vaguely at him, as if it was Victor’s fault that his name meant nothing.
    “Yes?”
    “I’ve come because of that job,” said Victor. “You know?”
    “What job? What should I know?” said Silverfish. “How the hell did you get in here?”
    “I broke into moving pictures,” said Victor. “But it’s nothing that a hammer and a few nails won’t put right.”
    Panic bloomed on Silverfish’s face. Victor pulled out the card and waved it in what he hoped was a reassuring way.
    “In Ankh-Morpork?” he said. “A couple of nights ago? You were being menaced?”
    Realization dawned. “Oh, yes,” said Silverfish faintly. “And you were the lad who was of some help.”
    “And you said to come and see you if I wanted to move pictures,” said Victor. “I didn’t, then, but I do now.” He gave