Having made scrupulous checks that he infringed no local bylaws, Maxwell set up a booth of bartered canvas in the town square. This served him as business premises and sleeping quarters and before it he hung a sign which read, simply:
MAX CARRION
IMAGINEER
ALL PROBLEMS SOLVED
And then he awaited the rush.
And waiting it still was he.
So far he had been called upon to solve only two problems. The first being to trace the whereabouts of a lost dog, the second to seek the cause of blockage in the town’s latrine. Although hardly grist to the thought-mill of an imagineer and sadly lacking for chivalrous adventure, Maxwell had accepted both commissions, working on the ‘great oaks from little acorns grow’ principle.
And he had been successful in both commissions, hauling, as he did, the corpse of the lost dog from the sewage outflow pipe.
One party had defaulted in payment, however.
But the mayor of the town had paid Maxwell handsomely.
In parsnips.
The arrival of the travelling TV had raised Maxwell’s spirits no end, and, as the Imagineering business was a bit slack, he had taken to viewing the daily performances. And while so doing, a grandiose scheme had entered his mercurial mind, which he now felt he should translate into deeds for the benefit of all.
Good chap.
‘Are you still here?’ asked the zany. ‘Bugger off, will you?’
‘I have come to offer you my services,’ said Maxwell.
‘Now that is pleasing to my ears.’ The zany sliced parsnips into an earthenware casserole. ‘Hitch yourself to the towing bar and be prepared to pull us out of town once we have eaten.’
‘Your humour is well received.’ Maxwell squatted down beside the zany. ‘But the services I offer are more cerebral in nature.
‘Who is this clod?’ asked Dayglo Hilyte, shambling over with a bundle of kindling.
‘This is Max Carrion, Imagineer,’ explained the zany. ‘He has come to proffer his services.’
‘Splendid, then hitch him up to the towing bar.’
‘Your servant has already split my sides with that particular witticism,’ said Maxwell. ‘However, I have a proposition to put to you which I think you will find most beneficial.’
‘Oh yes?’ Dayglo raised a pencilled eyebrow. ‘How much will this proposition cost us?’
‘It is utterly free of charge. I act through altruism alone.’
‘Then we will be most pleased to hear it.’
Max sat down on the ground and looked on whilst Dayglo and his zany continued with the preparation of their bleak repast.
‘It is regarding this news of yours,’ said Max.
Dayglo made a proud face beneath his make-up. ‘It is fine news, is it not?’
‘Fine news indeed, but somewhat out of date.’
‘Out of date?’ Dayglo puffed his cheeks. ‘How can such fine news ever date?’
‘It hardly addresses current issues.’
Dayglo Hilyte laughed. ‘My news is the last news ever to be broadcast upon the networks before they closed down forever at the time of the great transition. This news is the property of my family. It has been handed down from generation to generation.’
‘So much I surmised,’ said Max. ‘But I feel that you are somehow missing the point of what news is actually supposed to be.’
‘Oh yes? And what is that then?’
‘Well, as I said, news should address current issues. It should relate to information about important or interesting recent events.’
‘Tish and tosh.’ Dayglo laughed once more. ‘This is archaic thinking. I am a learned man and possess books dating back to the former aeon. In those benighted times, although the food was perhaps more varied, the news was never the same two days running. It was forever changing, here today and gone tomorrow. You could never take hold of it, be secure with it, say, this news I like and this news I will keep. Happily such times are dead and done with.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said Maxwell. ‘But consider this. You have now been here for a week, telling your same piece of news, and daily your audience diminishes. How would you explain that?’
‘In truth I am at a loss to explain it.’ Dayglo arranged kindling beneath the casserole pot. ‘Although we have observed this phenomenon repeatedly in other places.’
‘Perhaps if you had different news to 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 understanding, that the news tellers of ancient times were always assisted by a news crumpet. A glamorous young woman who provided for the sexual fantasies of the male viewing public and dealt with the second-rate news items that were beneath the dignity of the male news teller to relate.’
‘That’s not quite how I would have put it,’ said Maxwell. ‘But it is in essence correct.’
‘And I would get one of these?’
‘Well,’ said Maxwell, ‘I don’t see why not.’
‘The mayor has a most attractive daughter,’ said the zany, ‘or so I’ve heard, anyway.’
‘That’s settled then,’ said Maxwell. ‘Now listen to what I have in mind. Picture, if you will, a year from now. Imagine, as I have, a network of news gatherers covering the country. An information supertrackway. Each town and village with its own permanent TV set. You at the head of a mighty organization dedicated to education and instruction, to engender progress, to raise standards. To—’
‘Hold hard,’ cried the news teller. ‘Although wildly ambitious, there is much here to inspire one of noble calling such as myself, but I spy a very large flaw in your concept.’
‘Which is?’
‘Which is, who is going to pay for all this? The takings from the contributions sacks could at best support only the news teller and his crumpet. Who would pay these seekers after news who must scour the countryside?’
‘You would,’ said Maxwell. ‘Out of the huge revenues you would receive.’
‘Huge revenues? From what?’
Maxwell grinned his winning grin. ‘Have you ever heard of something called a TV commercial?’ he asked.
5
Over what was possibly the first business lunch to be held in nearly one hundred years, Maxwell explained the principle of advertising and the power of the TV commercial.
‘The substance of the thing is this,’ said Maxwell. ‘You are a respected man, are you not?’
Dayglo Hilyte nodded proudly and munched upon a parsnip.
‘You represent authority, someone who can be trusted.’
‘I pride myself upon this.’
‘So if you were to recommend a specific product, for instance, one particular baker’s bread, which you considered superior to that of his rivals, your viewing public would respect your opinion.’
‘I should expect nothing less.’
‘Is there anything in this town you would recommend to me?’
Dayglo pursed his lips. ‘The apothecary at the end of the river lane produces a most efficacious laxative.’
‘Hm,’ said Maxwell. ‘But all right. So if you were to approach the apothecary and tell him that for a small fee you would be prepared, during one of your broadcasts, to sing the praises of his laxative—’
‘Sing?’ Dayglo fell back in horror. ‘Sing?’
‘Only a turn of phrase. Recommend then, to your viewing public, thereby creating what is known as “product awareness”. Folk who heard your recommendation, who trusted you, would thereafter purchase their laxative from this apothecary.’
‘But they would anyway. He is the only apothecary in town.’
Maxwell sighed. ‘There is more than one baker’s shop.’
‘Agreed.’
‘And more than one grocer, and more than one tavern and more than one inn and more than one butcher—’
‘Aha,’ said the zany. ‘I follow this reasoning. If, for a small fee, Mr Hilyte was to broadcast that “Bulgarth the butcher’s beef is the best”, then folk who previously purchased their beef elsewhere, might be persuaded to shop at Bulgarth’s instead.’
‘You have it,’ said Maxwell. ‘For the small fee Bulgarth has paid you, his trade increases manyfold.’
‘I see a problem here,’ said Dayglo Hilyte. ‘What of the other butchers who now lose trade?’
‘This brings us to what is called “the spirit of healthy competition”,’ Maxwell told him. ‘For example, I myself have looked into the window of Leibwitz. His hams appear eminently superior to those of Bulgarth.’
‘I see it, I see it,’ said Dayglo. ‘Thus for a small fee from Leibwitz, I would recommend the quality of his hams.
‘Precisely. And soon each butcher will try to improve the quality of his meat. Each will seek your endorsement of this improved quality. Trade will increase for all, as you spread the word and folk rush to sample the improved products. The buyer will receive better meat. The butchers will enjoy greater custom. You accrue more fees. All are ultimately satisfied. Thus is financed the entire grand scheme.’
‘There is sound logic to this,’ said Dayglo, shaking Maxwell by the hand. ‘I should have thought of it myself.’
‘You are the eminent and noble news teller. I am the imagineer. And this is how we go about it.’
And this Maxwell now explained.
‘I shall undertake the job of news gatherer,’ he said. ‘I will interview folk of the town, learn what is to be learned, cross-referenced to ensure clarity and lack of bias. I shall seek out and document all I can of recent events and events yet to come; fêtes, fairs, weddings, funerals; anything that might coalesce into worthy news, to be of interest and instruction.’
Hearing this, the zany now volunteered to take on the role of advertising rep, visiting all the local business premises to explain the new scheme and solicit fees from anyone who wished to have their products endorsed in the first commercial break.
‘Excellent,’ said the news teller. ‘Then I shall dedicate myself to the thankless task of selecting a suitable news crumpet.
‘Shortly,’ said Max, with a knowing smile. ‘But first I suggest you visit the nearest carpenter’s shop and commission the building of a spectacular new two-person TV set.’
‘They will want a down payment,’ said the news-teller, gloomily.
Maxwell shook his head. ‘By no means. Outline our grand scheme to them. Stress that many TV sets will need to be constructed in the future. Stress also the prestige of their name being emblazoned across the front of every one.’
The news teller now shook his head. ‘Is there nothing you have not thought of?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ Maxwell said.
But on this surmise he was incorrect. Because here a spanner, or more aptly a chisel, introduced itself into the otherwise smooth-running works: the news teller, having scuttled off to the carpenter’s shop, shortly returned with some discouraging ‘news.
‘They will supply the wood free of charge, but not the labour,’ he said.
‘No matter,’ said Maxwell, as ever optimistic. ‘Accept the wood with thanks, then construct the TV yourself.’
‘What?’ The news teller stepped back in outrage. ‘Surely all hinges upon my reputation and social standing. I cannot descend to the humble role of carpenter. The zany must build it.’
‘Would that I could,’ said the zany. ‘But I must solicit fees, without which the project cannot be financed. Max must build it.’
‘Gladly,’ said Maxwell. ‘But I must gather news. Without news there is no project.’
‘I have a suggestion to make,’ said the zany. ‘Clearly Mr Hilyte must remain aloof from manual labour in order to preserve his dignity and esteem. Why should I not gather news as I do my rounds of the business premises? Mr Hilyte could accompany me, showing his face as it were, absorbing news—’
‘And interviewing likely candidates for the position of news crumpet,’ said Mr Hilyte.
‘Then you’, the zany told Maxwell, ‘could use your imagineering skills to great advantage, designing and constructing the new two-person TV set.’
Maxwell chanced a thoughtful scratch at his head and a wonderful vision swam into his mind.
 
; ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll,’ said Maxwell. ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll.’
And so began a week of much industry on the part of Maxwell, the news teller and his zany. It had been agreed that the first two-person commercial newscast would be scheduled for six o’clock on the coming Saturday night. Maxwell laboured long into each night on the construction of the TV set. It was to be a thing of great beauty and he lavished much tender loving care upon its every detail.
The news teller and his zany went about their sides of the business with considerable vigour and although Maxwell wished to consort with them each day, regarding what news had been gathered and what advertising commissions received, their paths rarely crossed his and Saturday drew ever close.
On Friday night the news teller did happen by for a moment, but only to try out his seat in the TV and insist upon an additional feature or two being added.
This is the most amazing thing I have ever seen,’ he told Maxwell, who grinned proudly as the news teller scuttled off with talk of a pressing meeting with the mayor, concerning proposed improvements to the town’s sewage system, which Dayglo considered worthy news.
On Saturday Maxwell rose before dawn. Such was not the normal way with him, as he preferred to begin his mornings at a more civilized hour. But today was special. If all went well today he would have done his part in bringing a new age to this new age. He might well be written up in future books of history.
Throughout the week he’d hardly left the yard of the carpenter’s shop, where he had been constructing the TV set. Now he flung wide the gate and applied himself to dragging his brainchild, shrouded as it was by a canvas cover and mounted upon wooden trolley wheels, out into the square. It was somewhat weightier than he had accounted for and by the time Maxwell reached the centre of the square he had a fine sweat on and was panting not a little.
But this was the moment. His moment.
As the sun began to rise, he tore aside the canvas and positioned the TV set ‘just so’. The moment was for he alone. The moment was now.
The sun’s first rays struck down upon the two-person TV.