“Everything is all absolutely hunky-dory here. I’ve spoken to Adrian Lush and the others so there won’t be any embarrassments.”

“No holds barred, eh?” I grimaced, but Flakk was unapologetic.

“Needs must, Thursday. SpecOps requires your support in these difficult times. President Formby himself has called for an inquiry into whether SpecOps are value-for-money—or even necessary at all.”

“Okay,” I agreed, quite against my better judgment, “but this is the very last interview, yes?”

“Of course!” agreed Flakk hastily, then added in an overdramatic manner: “Oh my goodness is that the time? I have to catch the airship to Barnstaple in an hour. This is Adie; she’ll be looking after you and . . . and—” here Cordelia leaned just a little bit closer—“remember you’re SpecOps, darling!”

She air-kissed me again, glanced at her watch and took to her heels in a cloud of expensive scent.

“How could I forget?” I muttered as a bouncy girl clutching a clipboard appeared from where she had been waiting respectfully out of earshot.

“Hi!” squeaked the girl. “I’m Adie. I’m so pleased to meet you!”

She grasped my hand and told me repeatedly what a fantastic honor it was.

“I don’t want to bug you or anything,” she asked shyly, “but was Edward Rochester really drop-dead-gorgeous-to-die-for?”

“Not handsome,” I answered as I watched Flakk slink off down the corridor, “but certainly attractive. Tall, deep voice and glowering looks, if you know the type.”

Adie turned a deep shade of pink.

“Gosh!”

I was taken into makeup, where I was puffed and primped, talked at mercilessly and made to sign copies of the FeMole I had appeared in. I was very relieved when Adie came to rescue me thirty minutes later. She announced into her wireless that we were “walking” and then, after leading me down a corridor and through some swing doors, asked:

“What’s it like working in SpecOps? Do you chase bad guys, clamber around on the outside of airships, defuse bombs with three seconds to go, that sort of stuff?”

“I wish I did,” I replied good-humoredly, “but in truth it’s 70% form filling, 27% mind-numbing tedium and 2% sheer terror.”

“And the remaining 1%?”

I smiled. “That’s what keeps us going.”

We walked the seemingly endless corridors, past large grinning photographs of Adrian Lush and assorted other Network-Toad celebrities.

“You’ll like Adrian,” she told me happily, “and he’ll like you. Just don’t try to be funnier than him; it doesn’t suit the format of the show.”

“What does that mean?”

She shrugged.

“I don’t know. I’m meant to tell all his guests that.”

“Even the comedians?”

“Especially the comedians.”