One had felt at first that this complexity was of some value in itself, since it increased the probability that One was the only person who could understand and therefore control it. But at a certain point a curious thing had happened. The organism had gone critical. When the total number of committees, sub-committees, and working parties had reached twenty-three, cell division began to occur spontaneously. One day there were twenty-three organisational units, for all of which One could account, and the next day there were twenty-four. Mrs. Plushkov found the minutes of a body called the Central Liaison Committee being circulated – a committee of which One had never heard, and which included neither Riddle nor One. And the next day there were twenty-six committees! The monster had come alive!

‘Be that as it may,’ said Mrs. Plushkov, allowing herself to imply a suspicion of reproachfulness against Riddle by spooning some of the ash out of the cream jug, ‘One must leave catering matters to the Catering Sub-Committee. What One really ought to discuss is the question – which I believe is coming up in your Procedure Committee tomorrow – of the Protocol Committee’s report on the press enclosure.’

‘The what?’ croaked Riddle.

Mrs. Plushkov smiled with charity.

‘The enclosure for the journalists reporting the visit,’ she said.

‘What journalists reporting the visit?’

‘A number of reporters and photographers will be given passes by the Palace press authorities. It’s done on a rota system – it’s quite out of our hands.’

‘Then what’s this enclosure business?’

‘I believe what the Protocol Committee had in mind was that certain precautions were necessary if the press were going to have access to alcohol.’

‘Just a moment, old lad. What’s this about alcohol?’

‘The Protocol Committee believes – and One feels rightly – that we should offer the press drinks. Apparently it’s customary on these occasions.’

‘Why can’t they have tea like everyone else?’

‘Apparently the press doesn’t drink tea. Anyway, it’s proposed that the press should be separated from the royal party by either red plush ropes with brass mountings, or a dense screen of indoor vegetation. One doesn’t want some drunken reporter leaning over the barrier and trying to touch the Queen. Then again, One can scarcely ignore the possibility that one of them will start throwing things. They will be much less tempted to throw things, the Protocol Committee believes, if they cannot see what to throw them at.’

Riddle choked with rage and smoke.

‘I thought this was supposed to be an informal visit,’ she gasped.

‘One can surely take it pretty much for granted that One should not allow informality to be taken to the point where the Queen would find herself greeted by a fusillade of crab sandwiches and empty liquor bottles.’

Riddle slapped down her cup, and drew in a supply of air with which to shout, ‘I shall fight this every inch of the way,’ before marching out of the room. But the cold air tickled her smoke-raw throat, and she suffered a prolonged fit of coughing, by the end of which the moment for rhetoric seemed to have passed.