'It's just a mutt,' said his companion. 'Don't worry about it. Come on, get the leash on this one and let's get him back before Mr Dibbler finds out.'

Laddie followed them obediently back to Century of the Fruitbat, and allowed himself to be chained up to his kennel. Possibly he didn't like the idea, but it was hard to be sure in the network of duties, obligations and vague emotional shadows that made up what, for want of a better word, had to be called his mind.

He pulled experimentally on the chain once or twice, and then lay down, awaiting developments.

After a while a small hoarse voice on the other side of the fence said, 'I could send you a bone with a file in it, only you'd eat it.'

Laddie perked up.

'Good boy Laddie! Good boy Gaspode!'

'Ssh! Ssh! At least they ort to let you speak to a lawyer,' said Gaspode. 'Chaining someone up's against human rights.'

'Woof.'

'Anyway, I paid 'em back. I followed the 'orrible one back to his house an' piddled all down his front door.'

'Woof.'

Gaspode sighed, and waddled away. Sometimes, in his heart of hearts, he wondered whether it wouldn't after all be nice to belong to someone. Not just be owned by them or chained up by them, but actually belong, so that you were glad to see them and carried their slippers in your mouth and pined away when they died, etc.

Laddie actually liked that kind of stuff, if you could call it 'liked'; it was more like something built into his bones. Gaspode wondered darkly if this was true dogness, and growled deep in his throat. It wasn't, if he had anything to do with it. Because true dogness wasn't about slippers and walkies and pining for people, Gaspode was sure. Dogness was about being tough and independent and mean.

Yeah.

Gaspode had heard that all canines could interbreed, even back to the original wolves, so that must mean that, deep down inside, every dog was a wolf. You could make a dog out of a wolf, but you couldn't take the wolf out of a dog. When the hardpad was acting up and the fleas were feisty and acting full of plumptiousness, it was a comforting thought.

Gaspode wondered how you went about mating with a wolf, and what happened to you when you stopped.

Well, that didn't matter. What mattered was that true dogs didn't go around going mad with pleasure just because a human said something to them.

Yeah.

He growled at a pile of trash and dared it to disagree.

Part of the pile moved, and a feline face with a defunct fish in its mouth peered out at him. He was just about to bark half-heartedly at it, for tradition's sake, when it spat the fish out and spoke to him.

'Hallo, Gathpode.'

Gaspode relaxed. 'Oh. Hallo, cat. No offence meant. Didn't know it was you.'

'I hateth fisth,' said the cat, 'but at leasth they don't talk back.'

Another part of the trash moved and Squeak the mouse emerged.

'What're you two doin' down here?' said Gaspode. 'I thought you said it was safer on the hill.'

'Not any more,' said the cat. 'It'sh getting too shpooky.'

Gaspode frowned. 'You're a cat,' he said disapprovingly. 'You ort to be right alongside the idea of spooky.'

'Yeah, but that doesh'nt exhtend to having golden sparks crackling off your fur and the ground shaking the whole time. And weird voices that you think must be happening in your own head,' said cat. 'It's becoming eldritch up there.'

'So we all came down,' said Squeak. 'Mr Thumpy and the duck are hiding out in the dunes-'

Another cat dropped off the fence beside them. It was large and ginger and not blessed with Holy Wood intelligence. It stared at the sight of a mouse looking relaxed in the presence of a cat.

Squeak nudged cat on the paw. 'Get rid of it,' he said.

Cat glared at the newcomer. 'Sod off,' he said. 'Go on, beat it. Gods; thish ish so humiliating.'

'Not just for you,' said Gaspode, as the new cat trotted away shaking its head. 'If some of the dogs in this town see me chatting to a cat, my street cred is going to go way down.'

'We were reckoning', said the cat, with the occasional nervous glance towards Squeak, 'that maybe we ought to give in and see if, see if, see if-'

'He's trying to say there might be a place for us in moving pictures,' said Squeak. 'What do you think?'

'As a double act?' said Gaspode. They nodded.

'Not a chance,' he said. 'Who's going to pay good money to see cats and mice chasing one another? They're only interested even in dogs if they jus' pander to humans the whole time, so they certainly ain't going to watch a cat chase a mouse. Take it from me. I know about movin' pictures.'

'Then it's about time your humans got it sorted out so we can go home,' snapped the mouse. 'The boy isn't doing anything.'

'He's useless,' said the mouse.

'He's in love,' said Gaspode. 'It's very tricky.'

'Yeah, I know how it ish,' said the cat sympathetically. 'People throwing old boots and things at you.'

'Old boots?' said the mouse.

'That'sh what's always happened to me when I've been in love,' said cat wistfully.

'It's different for humans,' said Gaspode uncertainly. 'You don't get so many boots and buckets of water thrown at you. It's more, er, flowers and arguing and stuff.'

The animals looked glumly at one another.

'I've watched 'em,' said Squeak. 'She thinks he's a idiot.'

'That's all part of it,' added Gaspode. 'They call it romance.'

Cat shrugged. 'Give me a boot every time. You know where you stand, with a boot.'

The glittering spirit of Holy Wood streamed out into the world, no longer a trickle but a flood. It bubbled in the veins of people, even of animals. When the handlemen turned their handles, it was there. When the carpenters hammered their nails, they hammered for Holy Wood. Holy Wood was in Borgle's stew, in the sand, in the air. It was growing.

And it was going to flower . . .

Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, or C.M.O.T. as he liked to be called, sat up in bed and stared at the darkness.

In his head a city was on fire.

He fumbled hurriedly beside his bed for the matches, managed to light the candle, and eventually located a pen.

There was no paper. He specifically told everyone there ought to be some paper by his bed, in case he woke up with an idea. That's when you got the best ideas, when you were asleep.

At least there was a pen and ink . . .

Images sleeted past his eyes. Catch them now, or let them go forever . . .

He snatched up the pen and started to scribble on the bedsheets.

A Man and A Woman Aflame With Passione in A Citie Riven by Sivil War!

The pen scritched and spluttered its way across the coarse linen.

Yes! Yes! This was it!

He'd show 'em, with their silly plaster pyramids and penny-and-dime palaces. This was the one they'd have to look up to! When the history of Holy Wood was written this was the one they'd point to and say: That was the Moving Picture to End all Moving Pictures!