'No,' said the Praelector hurriedly; 'I don't. Anyway why did you say you must have been insane when I came into the room just now?'

'Because,' said the Senior Tutor with extraordinary venom, 'because I thought two large Benedictines taken after an entire bottle of 1947 crusted port at Corpus Christi, and that's not a name I'd use for that damned college, would settle my stomach nicely. Have you ever drunk an entire bottle of crusted port _and_ two Benedictines?'

The look on the Praelector's face was a sufficient answer.

'Well, don't is all I can say. I wouldn't wish the consequences on my very worst enemy. And what damned fool told me '47 was a good year for port? It was a bloody awful year for everything. Whale meat and snoek and the coldest winter imaginable…If anyone mentions 1947 to me ever again…'

The Senior Tutor sipped more beef tea and gave the Praelector the opportunity he had been waiting for. 'On the topic of little problems,' he began and stopped.

The Senior Tutor had choked. 'Little? Little problems? You come in here and talk to me about little problems. This is the worst problem…'

He gave up and the Praelector went on. 'I'm talking about Kudzuvine and the damage done to the Chapel.' He stopped. The Senior Tutor was looking homicidal again.

'The leader of that group of hoodlums calls himself Mr Kudzuvine,' the Praelector explained.

Quite clearly the Senior Tutor didn't believe him. 'Why?' he demanded.

'I don't know why. I'm just saying he does. And I have to say I didn't believe him to begin with either.'

'I don't believe the bastard now. End of story,' said the Senior Tutor.

'Well, not quite, as it happens,' said the Praelector tentatively. The Senior Tutor's temper wasn't just uncertain-in fact uncertainty didn't come into it-it was extremely nasty all the time.

He had turned a furious face towards the Praelector. 'Go on. What do you mean "not quite"? You mean there's more?'

'I'm afraid so. You see, when the roof of the Chapel began to give way…' he began.

'You are a liar, a bloody liar,' shouted the Senior Tutor. 'You come in here and deliberately set out to torment me.' He rose from his chair and spilt some of the beef tea down his trousers. 'I've looked out of windows I don't know how many times today to make sure those ghastly figures weren't there and I'm not going blind on account of the masturbating you accuse me of and the Chapel roof is still there. It has not given way.'

'I didn't actually accuse you of masturbating, you know. I just thought that-'

'Thought? What's that if it isn't accusing?'

'Well, we all think things all the time but it doesn't mean to say we do them. God alone knows what would happen if we did,' said the Praelector.

'I don't need God to know what I'd do. I know damned well myself The Senior Tutor slumped back into his chair and spilt some more beef tea.

'Well, about the roof. You're quite right, it hasn't given way entirely, but thanks to those foul people stamping about on it this morning during the Sung Eucharist several large sections of plaster have come down-it's a miracle no one was killed-Dr Cox's Memorial Bust has gone and the Lectern has assumed a new and rather peculiar configuration.'

'But the Lectern is made of solid bronze. It's immensely strong,' said the Senior Tutor. 'Are you saying it's bent?' His disbelief was patent.

'Not so much bent as twisted. You know that bird on the front, I assume it's an eagle? Well, it's no longer flying forward so much as looping the loop.'

'Looping the loop? Are you out of your mind? The fucking thing never did fly. Couldn't even if it wanted to. Far too heavy and-'

'Oh, for goodness' sake,' the Praelector interrupted. It was his turn to be furious. 'Stop taking figures of speech literally and listen. A huge block of solid masonry supporting one of the roof timbers came away and landed on the Lectern. In other words, we are now in a position to demand the most enormous damages from these people. It could run into millions.'

'Could do but it won't. Don't suppose we'll ever catch the swine and even if we did they'd weasel out of it somehow.'

'As a matter of fact Mr Kudzuvine is lying in bed in the Master's Lodge and is unconscious. I have sent for Dr MacKendly and the Matron is with him.' A shiver ran through the Senior Tutor. 'The point I am trying to make is that Mr Kudzuvine is Vice-President of a company called Transworld Television Productions who were here at the Bursar's behest to make some sort of film about the College. In other words-'

'The Bursar? You mean to say the bloody Bursar's responsible for…? I'll kill the swine. I'll tear him limb from limb. I'll make him wish he'd never been born. I'll-'

'Sit down,' commanded the Praelector and, exercising his temporary physical superiority, pushed the Senior Tutor and the beef tea back into his chair. 'You will do nothing of the sort. Instead you will listen to me. We are strategically placed to force this Transworld Television company to make good the damage they have done and pay very large financial compensation into the bargain. I am now going to see if I can find the Bursar and I want you to come with me…No, on the whole I do not think that would be very advisable given your present condition. I shall find someone more rational.'

He went down the stairs and found Dr Buscott gloomily looking at a moccasin floating in the Fountain. 'I don't know what the world is coming to,' he said. 'I gather there was some sort of riot here this morning.'

The Praelector took him and a young physicist called Gilkes along to the Bursar's office. 'I want you to take careful note of what is said,' he told them. 'We are going to sue for damages and I need witnesses.'

They finally found the Bursar hiding in the little washroom behind the College Secretary's office and although it was Sunday she was there herself. 'Ah Mrs Morestead, have you seen the Bursar?' the Praelector enquired.

Mrs Morestead indicated the washroom with her head and the Bursar was brought out. He was ashen and in a state of acute anxiety.

'Now come along and sit down and tell us all about it over a nice cup of tea,' said the Praelector in his most kindly manner. 'Mrs Morestead is going to make a nice big pot of strong tea and we'll have some biscuits and you'll explain why you hired this Transworld Television Company to come and make a film about Porterhouse. Now it's all right. Nobody is going to hurt…to blame you and you are quite safe with us. Just tell us in your own words…No, there's no need to gibber and I didn't quite catch what you were gibbering about. No, the Senior Tutor isn't going to find you here. And yes, I daresay he is stalking about seeking whom he may devour, though I rather doubt he's in any condition to stalk anything and his desire to devour is notably absent today. Now here is Mrs Morestead with the tea. Yes, lots of sugar. Thank you, Dr Buscott, and the biscuits please, Mr Gilkes. That's nice, isn't it? Nice and cosy.'

The Bursar shook his head miserably. 'They'll kill me. I know they will,' he whimpered.

'I don't think so. Of course the Dean is going to be a trifle cross and the Senior Tutor-'

'I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about those terrible people down at Transworld Television. Skundler, for instance.'

'Skundler?' said the Praelector and asked for the name to be spelt so that Mrs Morestead could get it down.

'And then there is Edgar Hartang. He's the head of it all and a terrifying man and enormously rich and flies about the world in his own King Lear…' The Bursar stopped, conscious that there was a mistake somewhere.

'I see,' said the Praelector in tones that would have done credit to an undertaker at the bedside of a dying man. 'Do go on. In a King Lear? Does he have three daughters, by any chance?'