The fingers could not of course feel when their grip was tight enough. The people who fitted the arm had told me that success was picking up eggs: and I'd broken a dozen or two in practising, at the beginning. Absentmindedness had since resulted in an exploding light bulb and crushed-flat cigarette packets and explained why I used the marvels of science less than I might.

I emptied the bits of glass into the dustbin and switched on the television again; but the comedy was over, and Rosemary came between me and a cops-and-robbers. With a sigh I switched off, and cooked my steak, and after I'd eaten it picked up the telephone to talk to Bobby Unwin, who worked for the Daily Planet.

'Information will cost you,' he said immediately, when he found who was on his line.

'Cost me what?' 'A spot of quid pro quo.'

'All right,' I said.

'What are you after, then?' 'Um,' I said. 'You wrote a long piece about George Caspar in your Saturday colour supplement a couple of months ago. Pages and pages of it.'

'That's right. Special feature. In-depth analysis of success. The Planet's doing a once-a-month series on high-flyers, tycoons, pop-stars, you name it. Putting them under the cliche microscope and coming up with a big yawn yawn expose of bugger all.'

'Are you horizontal?'

I said. There was a short silence followed by a stifled girlish giggle.

'You just take your intuitions to Siberia,' Bobby said.

'What made you think so?' 'Envy, I dare say.' But I'd really only been asking if he was alone, without making it sound important. 'Will you be at Kempton tomorrow?'