‘Make it clear to him that I’m not criticising the technical or artistic side of the show.’

‘Not the technical or artistic side.’

‘I don’t pretend to be competent to criticise that side of our shows. Never have, and don’t suppose I ever will. I know my limitations, Prestwick. I employ experts to tell me whether our shows are competitive from the technical, artistic, and moral standpoint. I have full confidence in them. Tell Corbishley that.’

‘I will, R.V.’

‘But I do know when I see a man with his tie under one ear, or a girl with her shoulder strap coming down. And I won’t have it on one of our shows.’

‘I agree entirely, R.V.’

‘I’ve an eye for detail, Prestwick, an eye for detail.’

‘You certainly have, R.V.’

‘I don’t pretend to be an expert on television. I don’t pretend to know very much about business or money. But I do claim to have an eye for detail.’

‘An eye for detail.’

‘It’s the secret of successful management, Prestwick. Look after the small things, and the big things will look after themselves.’

‘Look after themselves. Exactly.’

‘I think the staff respect it too, don’t they?’

‘Of course they do, R.V.’

‘I think they do. I think they do.’

Mr. Vulgurian stopped and smoothed down his fine silver hair. It aided his thinking, and he believed in thinking. Once he had said to Sir Prestwick, ‘If I were asked to put my advice to a young man in one word, Prestwick, do you know what that word would be?’

‘No?’ Sir Prestwick had said.

‘ “Think,” Prestwick, “Think.” ’

‘I don’t know, R.V. “Detail”?’

‘No, Prestwick, “Think.” ’

‘Er. “Courage”?’

‘No. “Think.” ’

‘I give up, R.V. “Boldness”?’

‘For heaven’s sake, Prestwick, what is the matter with you? “Think”!’

‘ “Integrity”? “Loyalty”? “Leadership”?’

‘ “Think,” Prestwick! “Think,” “Think,” “Think,” “Think”!’

When had that been? Sir Prestwick’s last duodenal crisis but one?

‘Who’s producing It’s a Giggle these days?’ Mr. Vulgurian asked keenly.

‘Corbishley, R.V.’

‘Ah, Corbishley. Well, tell him, will you, Prestwick?’

Sir Prestwick jotted down on his folder ‘Tell Corbishley,’ so that his complete notes on the subject under discussion now read ‘Tell Corbishley. Tell Corbishley. Tell Corbishley.’ Sir Prestwick allowed a small sigh to slip furtively through his moustache. He was not a happy man. He had been appointed to the board of Amalgamated Television after being knighted for his services to British public relations, services which had consisted of being the only public relations man the knighting authorities could find who was not at that moment actually engaged in any morally offensive activity, since he was in hospital under an anaesthetic. For a start he had been responsible for the public relations side. But the public relations side had turned out to lead naturally into the cultural relations side, which meant being the relation between Mr. Vulgurian and culture, and the cultural relations side had opened imperceptibly into the human relations side, which involved being the relation between Mr. Vulgurian and all the human beings in the world apart from the public, who came under public relations. Sir Prestwick was visibly wasting away under the strain of the job.