‘Rooting through rubbish like a pig,’ he said, ‘you call that journalism?’

The man-pig examined Tancredi, jerking his head in short, sharp spasms. Suddenly he snorted and leapt off his paper seat.

‘I know who you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘News travels. You’re the voyager with the one-size-fits-all philosophy. No wonder you disapprove of a trade which personifies the here and now. But what’s wrong with that? News is only news because it’s new. You need to re-think your creed.’

‘And filth is news?’

‘Your pious views are all very well,’ the man-pig said, re-taking his seat, ‘but since when have pleasantries sold papers? What do people crave – a photo of a sun-filled sky or a bloody battlefield? Nice doesn’t sell. You know that.’

He stood up and attached the pannier to his backside.

‘People are simple-minded. They want to read about the Neanderthal footballer and his lobotomised wife. Acres of forest are destroyed in the cause of reporting his affairs, her breasts, their nuptials, every sort of vulgarity – the continuing alliance of two great minds in our glorious culture.’

He broke wind into the pannier, unconcerned by his lack of decorum.

‘Go on,’ said Tancredi.

‘And pain, that’s a big seller – all the things people want to conceal. Whispered secrets, doleful confessions, bad news, embarrassing results. Fat rolls, sagging skin, varicose veins, unwanted hair, spots, cellulite and wrinkles. People love other people’s pain. The misfortune of others is even more satisfying than one’s own success.’

He tore a strip of newspaper from his seat and stuffed it into his mouth. Within seconds it had been chewed and swallowed. Tancredi shifted uncomfortably on his makeshift chair.

‘Best of all is a combination of mindlessness and pain; anything involving sex, rudeness, embarrassing situations, infantile behaviour and imbecilic opinions. Morons on TV in a house or jungle. So you tell me, who’s to blame?’

‘Very well,’ replied Tancredi looking uneasy, ‘but what happens when you go too far?’

‘Our readers couldn’t care less,’ the man-pig shot back. ‘You think they don’t want their diet of dirt? To be provided with bouncing breasts and beastly breaking news? And what an opportunity for politicians and celebrities, our collaborators in crime, to rise up in righteous indignation. Once they loved us. Now they hate us. What perfect outrage!’

He produced a tablet from an inner pocket and began to type at an urgent pace. Tancredi bent over to look.

‘Scoop! Space Traveller Found on Rubbish Tip!

‘From your own reporter …

‘Tancredi, the cosmic scourge of short-termism, has been found barely alive on a rubbish tip.’

‘But that’s not true,’ Tancredi protested, ‘I’m fine.’

The man-pig snorted, looking annoyed.

‘Oh grow up!’ he scolded. ‘Since when does the news have to be true?’

Tancredi knew he couldn’t win this argument, so he decided to change the subject.

‘Can you help me find my friends? We were separated on landing, I’ve no idea where they are.’

Without warning the man-pig shot off his seat and shook his pannier.