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and—’
    ‘Worms like ours?’ Aubrey interrupted him, excitedly.
    ‘Of course not.’ He looked mildly surprised. ‘Thought I’d made that clear. But very, very interesting all the same. You see—’
    ‘I’m sorry, could we stick to our sewer worms? It’s been suggested no one ever saw them before because they lived at the bottom of the North Sea or the Bristol Channel, and that, now they’ve been disturbed by the oil drilling, they’ve moved inland.’
    ‘Impossible. They couldn’t live so deep under water. They breathe air, same as we do – though what with the carbon monoxide and lead we pour out from our car exhausts, we’re much more dangerous to them than they are to us. If you television people really want to stir up a scandal, do a programme on how we pollute the air we breathe.’
    Aubrey nodded. ‘But it doesn’t do to underplay this,’ he argued. ‘A man’s in hospital.’
    ‘One unlucky man. That hardly constitutes a national crisis.’
    No worse than ferrets, mused Aubrey as he accompanied the Professor down in the lift. We can cut directly from thatstatement to shots of the worms devouring Matt Parker’s face. Guzzling like pigs at a trough. A good strong contrast to make the viewers sit up in their armchairs.
    ‘We’ll be using a minute or so of that interview in the News later today,’ he explained as they reached the ground floor. ‘But the full version will go into the documentary we’re preparing.’
    ‘One interesting thing about these sewer worms,’ the Professor said before they parted, ‘is reproduction. Frankly, we just don’t know. The blind worm is viviparous – gives birth to live young, doesn’t lay eggs as most reptiles do. But so far we’ve not managed to find a female sewer worm. They’ve all been males. If you collect any during your investigations, do give me a ring.’
    ‘Of course,’ Aubrey promised. This gave him a new angle. What do sewer worms do about sex? ‘Maybe we could come and film the dissection?’
    ‘That might be possible.’
    He waited until his guest was through the revolving door before returning to the lifts. Mary Keating had sent a message to the Presentation Suite that she’d like a word, and this was as good a time as any to discuss the documentary with her. He’d need her agreement before he could really go ahead, and she could easily object. ‘No worse than ferrets,’ he repeated to himself as he strode around the curving corridor towards her office: that was the clinching argument.
    ‘Well, I warned you!’ she announced grimly the moment he opened the door. She was looking at him over the top of her reading glasses. An untidy mess of letters and telegrams was spread out before her over her large executive desk. ‘I’ve just had the Chairman of the Independent Broadcasting Authority on the phone.’
    ‘Complaints?’
    He chose the most comfortable armchair and settled himself in it. From the look on her face it was going to be one of those long sessions. Her midget, balding teddy bear stared back at him from its usual place next to the intercom. Near it was an unopened package from Fortnum and Mason tied with ornate ribbon.
    ‘An unholy row, and coming right from the top,’ she was saying. ‘Protests from the Viewers’ Assocation, the Protection of Children Group, two bishops … oh, and look at these!’ She held them up.
    ‘Letters? Already?’
    ‘Delivered by hand. I shudder to think what the post will bring. Three Tory MPs and two Labour all say they’re tabling questions in the House of Commons.’ She glanced down at one of the letters. ‘No, I’m wrong. The Labour lady intends to demand an emergency debate.’
    ‘At least they’re taking the threat seriously.’
    ‘The threat? Oh, from the worms? No, it’s the propriety of showing it on TV they’re arguing about. Bringing violence into the home.’ She began to shuffle the papers together.
    Aubrey watched her for a second. ‘At least one person sent