‘It’s the Establishment, R.V. All these academics are hand in glove with the Establishment. They all hang together.’

‘The Establishment! Raising its ugly head again, eh? As you know, Prestwick, I don’t pretend to have any political views – I have experts who look after that side of things for me. But it does seem to me symptomatic of something that a television organisation which provides the nation’s main socio-cultural communications system cannot even get the Duke of Gloucester, while some little theological college catering for a tiny minority can get the Queen.’

‘Very true, R.V.’

Mr. Vulgurian put the penknife back in his pocket and began to circle the room again.

‘Then again,’ he said, ‘it is our wing that the Queen will be opening.’

‘That’s true, too, R.V.’

‘You know, Prestwick, when I look into the future I am certain we are entering upon an era in which religion and mass communications will put all distrust and antagonism behind them, and learn to co-operate to their mutual advantage.’

‘That’s certainly a thought, R.V.’

‘Jot it down, Prestwick, for my speech to the Association for the Furtherance of Responsible Television next week.’

‘I have, R.V. It’s incorporated in the text of the speech I gave you yesterday.’

‘Good, Prestwick, good. It certainly bears out my point about the value of ethics. This little theological college . . . Did you say it was a theological college, Prestwick?’

‘A research establishment, R.V.’

‘This little research establishment came to us for help. We did not ask whether it was Protestant, Catholic, or Jewish. Did we ask, Prestwick?’

‘Well, no, R.V., because it’s . . .’

‘Because it’s not our way. Without regard to colour, race, or creed, we gave what help we could.’

‘Fifty thousand pounds, R.V.’

‘Fifty thousand pounds.’

Mr. Vulgurian completed three laps of the room in a reflective silence. Sir Prestwick was beginning to feel sick and dizzy with the constant revolving of the swivel chair.

‘Fifty thousand pounds,’ said Mr. Vulgurian. ‘Fifty thousand pounds . . . That figure was authorised by the board, wasn’t it, Prestwick? Yes? But we have work to do. What work do we have to do, Prestwick?’

‘I think you wanted to discuss the withdrawal of the “Think Big” notices in all the executives’ offices, R.V.’

‘Ah. We decided that they were a little unsophisticated for an organisation like ours, didn’t we?’

‘I think we did, R.V.’

‘One of your less happy inspirations, Prestwick, though as you know, I never interfere in your running of the cultural side. What have you managed to cook up for us instead?’

‘I wondered how you would feel about “Only connect”?’

Mr. Vulgurian’s secretary tiptoed into the room. He waved her out again, and stopped, absorbed, in front of the Rothko, licking his finger and rubbing it against a mark on the canvas to find out whether it was paint or dirt.

‘I know what I meant to ask you,’ he said. ‘Who’s producing It’s a Giggle these days?’