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offer each day, folk would hurry in droves each
day to hear of it.’
    ‘Had
you been listening more carefully,’ said the zany, ‘you would have noticed that
we already do this. The leader of the opposition’s name is changed several
times at each telling, to provide novelty and extra amusement.’
    Maxwell
shifted to another tack. ‘Do you never tire of reciting the same pieces of news
again and again, year after year?’
    ‘I
never tire of eating,’ replied Dayglo. ‘My eating and my news telling are
inextricably bound together.’
    Maxwell
peered into the pot. Dayglo did likewise. Thoughts were possibly shared.
    ‘But
surely,’ said Maxwell, ‘during your constant travels you must pick up all
manner of information that would interest your viewing public.’
    Dayglo
made an outraged face. ‘I am not some disseminator of rumour and gossip. I am a
teller of news, which is a noble calling.’
    ‘Quite
so,’ said Maxwell. ‘And few nobler. Before the time of the great transition it
was well known that the reason there were so many corrupt politicians about was
that all the good and true men of noble calling and unimpeachable morality
worked as journalists.
    ‘But
casting aside rumour and gossip, as one naturally would, surely you have heard
hard facts, genuine information, that might be passed on to your viewing public
in order to enrich their lives.’
    Dayglo
gave this matter some thought. ‘I did hear something last week,’ he said.
    ‘Go
on.’
    ‘In the
lands to the south I heard that an iconoclast had defiled one of the shrines of
Varney and that the worshippers have put a bounty on his head. Is this the kind
of information you have in mind?’
    Maxwell
made an involuntary croaking sound. ‘Not specifically. Something of more local
interest perhaps.’
    ‘I have
it on good authority that the mayor’s wife is enjoying a sexual relationship
with another man.’
    The
zany, who had been chewing on a raw parsnip, now made an identical croaking
noise to that just made by Max. ‘That would certainly be rumour,’ he gasped,
when he could find his breath. ‘And should not be broadcast abroad.’
    Dayglo
smiled warmly upon his servant, then not quite so warmly upon Max. ‘So there
you have it,’ said he. ‘The reinstatement of your archaic principle could never
work successfully. I have suggested two items of current interest and both have
been immediately censored. The telling of different news every day would be
fraught with such difficulties and be open to all forms of corruption and
abuse.’ The news teller fixed Maxwell with a most meaningful stare. ‘Let us
say, out of idle speculation, that I chose to relate the iconoclast news to
the viewing public and, say, that the iconoclast himself learned in advance of
my intention. Do you not think he might seek to bribe me in order to
preserve my silence?’
    Maxwell
returned the news teller’s meaningful stare. ‘Clearly I cannot imagine
what thoughts go on in the mind of such a maniac. Out of similarly idle
speculation I feel it more likely he would slit your throat!’
    ‘No
doubt aided by the lover of the mayor’s wife,’ the zany added, ‘out of fear
that similar exposure awaited him.’
    ‘Ahem.’
Dayglo massaged his throat. ‘I am, of course, merely hypothesizing. But you
take my point, I’m sure.’
    ‘Indeed
I do.’ Maxwell rose and stretched. ‘So we are agreed then. I will provide you
with good and wholesome news which will educate, instruct, inform and satisfy.
No sleaze, no rumour, no gossip. Fine news, but new news.’
    ‘Stop
right there.’ Dayglo Hilyte leapt to his feet. ‘I agree to no such thing. My
news is the finest news there is, unsullied by the vagaries of day-to-day existence.
Although …‘ And here he paused once more for thought. ‘Should I consider
such a radical departure from the norm, would I be provided with a news
crumpet?’
    ‘A news
crumpet?’ Maxwell asked.
    ‘A news
crumpet. It is my