‘He’s here somewhere,’ Mrs. Plushkov would say. ‘I’m not sure exactly where at the moment.’

Macintosh had taken Rowe to one side.

‘Yes,’ Rowe was saying. ‘Yes.’

‘I mean, you could get it done faster by programming a computer to do it.’

‘Yes. Y-e-e-e-s.’

‘There’s nothing inherently impossible about programming a computer to write a novel.’

‘No. Oh, no.’

‘We could programme Echo IV, the new computer they’ve parked in the Ethics Wing, to do the job, very easily. Not a very profound or original novel at this stage, perhaps. Not a very good one. Not the complex, sophisticated sort of thing that you’re probably producing. But a novel none the less.’

‘Y-e-e-e-s,’ said Rowe.

Nunn had the waiters bring out the case of whisky he had laid up for a private tot or two after the Queen’s departure. He was getting on very well with Vulgurian, who was leaning informally on the back of Sir Prestwick Wining’s wheel-chair and telling Nunn all about the programmes Amalgamated Television produced.

‘We don’t despise popularity,’ he was saying. ‘We’re not ashamed that It’s a Giggle is – where is It’s a Giggle in the charts at the moment, Prestwick?’

‘Tied fourth with Quids In, R.V.,’ said Sir Prestwick, who was sipping weakly at a glucose drink, and spoke with a certain effort.

‘Jolly good,’ said Nunn.

‘But we’re also proud and privileged to present our weekly intellectual programme, called – what’s our intellectual show called, Prestwick?’

‘Athens of the North, R.V.’

‘It’s a topical discussion programme in classical Greek. No one watches it – almost literally no one at all. What are the ratings, Prestwick?’

‘Too small to measure, R.V.’

‘And yet we shouldn’t dream of taking it off.’

‘Jolly good.’

‘Proud and privileged.’

‘A little more whisky, Mr. Vulgurian?’ suggested Nunn.

‘Thank you. Proud and privileged. No, as I was saying – what’s that banging, Prestwick?’

Nobbs had started out round the room to shake everybody’s hand.

‘Most pleased,’ he was saying. ‘Charmed to meet you. Delighted to make your acquaintance.’

‘Isn’t he marvellous?’ said all the wives all over again. ‘So absolutely at home with everyone.’

One or two of the younger people from the less conventional departments started to dance. Riddle had disappeared. Haugh was agreeing with the sales director of the flooring company that without any doubt whatsoever the world had been created between the 8th and the 14th of July, 5663 B.C. Vulgurian had put his arm round Chiddingfold’s shoulder.

‘We’re proud and privileged to produce It’s a Giggle, Mr. Chiddingfold. Proud and privileged.’

‘Another spot of whisky?’ asked Nunn.

‘Proud and privileged. Just a thumblefill, Ken, just a weeny thumblefill. Proud and – for God’s sake, Prestwick, get something done about that infernal banging!’