Moving Pictures by Terry Pratchett Page B

Silverfish a bright smile.
    But he thought: he’s going to try and wriggle out of it. He’s regretting the offer. He’s going to send me back to the queue.
    “Well, of course,” said Silverfish, “a lot of very talented people want to be in moving pictures. We’re going to have sound any day now. I mean, are you a carpenter? Any alchemical experience? Have you ever trained imps? Any good with your hands at all?”
    “No,” Victor admitted.
    “Can you sing?”
    “A bit. In the bath. But not very well,” Victor conceded.
    “Can you dance?”
    “No.”
    “Swords? Do you know how to handle a sword?”
    “A little,” said Victor. He’d used one sometimes in the gym. He’d never in fact fought an opponent, since wizards generally abhor exercise and the only other University resident who ever entered the place was the Librarian, and then only to use the ropes and rings. But Victor had practiced an energetic and idiosyncratic technique in front of the mirror, and the mirror had never beaten him yet.
    “I see,” said Silverfish gloomily. “Can’t sing. Can’t dance. Can handle a sword a little.”
    “But I have saved your life twice,” said Victor.
    “Twice?” snapped Silverfish.
    “Yes,” said Victor. He took a deep breath. This was going to be risky. “Then,” he said, “and now.”
    There was a long pause.
    Then Silverfish said, “I really don’t think there’s any call for that.”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Silverfish,” Victor pleaded. “I’m really not that kind of person but you did say and I’ve walked all this way and I haven’t got any money and I’m hungry and I’ll do anything you’ve got. Anything at all. Please .”
    Silverfish looked at him doubtfully.
    “Even acting?” he said.
    “Pardon?”
    “Moving about and pretending to do things,” said Silverfish helpfully.
    “Yes!”
    “Seems a shame, a bright, well-educated lad like you,” said Silverfish. “What do you do?”
    “I’m studying to be a w—,” Victor began. He remembered Silverfish’s antipathy toward wizardry, and corrected himself, “a clerk.”
    “A waclerk?” said Silverfish.
    “I don’t know if I’d be any good at acting, though,” Victor confessed.
    Silverfish looked surprised. “Oh, you’ll be OK,” he said. “It’s very hard to be bad at acting in moving pictures.”
    He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a dollar coin.
    “Here,” he said, “go and get something to eat.”
    He looked Victor up and down.
    “Are you waiting for something?” he said.
    “Well,” said Victor, “I was hoping you could tell me what’s going on.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “A couple of nights ago I watched your, your click ,” he felt slightly proud of remembering the term, “back in the city and suddenly I wanted to be here more than anything else. I’ve never really wanted anything in my life before!”
    Silverfish’s face broke into a relieved grin.
    “Oh, that,” he said. “That’s just the magic of Holy Wood. Not wizard’s magic,” he added hastily, “which is all superstition and mumbo-jumbo. No. This is magic for ordinary people. Your mind is fizzing with all the possibilities. I know mine was,” he added.
    “Yes,” said Victor uncertainly. “But how does it work?”
    Silverfish’s face lit up.
    “You want to know?” he said. “You want to know how things work?”
    “Yes, I—”
    “You see, most people are so disappointing,” Silverfish said. “You show them something really wonderful like the picture box, and they just go ‘oh.’ They never ask how it works. Mr. Bird!”
    The last word was a shout. After a while a door opened on the far side of the shack and a man appeared.
    He had a picture box on a strap around his neck. Assorted tools hung from his belt. His hands were stained with chemical and he had no eyebrows, which Victor was later to learn was a sure sign of someone who had been around octo-cellulose for any length of time. He also had his cap on back to