‘Well... yes. I saw a herd of Buzonjis up there; until yesterday they were thought to be almost extinct.’
‘I’m no expert, of course,’ said Baird in the sort of voice people use when they are trying to tell you they are an expert, ‘but I think you’ll find the best place for endangered species is in a zoo. What are zoos for anyway? Without all these endangered species kicking around, there’d be no work for zookeepers and naturalists.’
‘Eh?’
Yogi steered the show towards something less controversial.
‘So tell me, what makes a good Dragonslayer? A steady hand and a sharp sword?’
‘I think the name Dragonslayer is a misnomer,’ I answered carefully. ‘I see myself more as a keeper, who has to weigh the interests of the Dragon against dangerous outside influences.’
‘Ah yes. Some newspapers have criticised you for your pro-Dragon stance. Our researchers have uncovered that Dragons are, and I quote: Dangerous fire-breathing and evil-smelling loathsome vermin who would think nothing of torching an entire village and eating all the babies were it not for the magic of the Dragonpact.’
‘Where did you read that?’
‘My researchers have sources.’
‘Well,’ I conceded, ‘it is the populist view, although after my short meeting with Maltcassion I was more inclined to think him a gentleman of considerable learning.’
‘So, loathsome worm or learned gentleman? Let’s see what the callers have to say. I have Millie Barnes on line one. Hello, Millie, what is your question, please?’
A little girl’s voice came over the loudspeaker. She couldn’t have been older than five.
‘Hello, Jennifer. What’s a Dragon like?’
‘He looks like a huge pile of stones, Millie. Rough and shapeless. You wouldn’t know he was there unless he spoke. As for character, he is noble and fearless and has much that he could teach us—’
‘Thank you for your question, Millie,’ said Mr Baird dismissively. ‘I have Colonel Baggsum-Gayme on three. Go ahead, Colonel.’
‘Jennifer, m’girl,’ said the colonel gruffly, ‘best not to try and attack the blighter on your own, what with you being a girlie and all. Allow me to offer my services as the finest hunter of big game, advice absolutely free as long as I can stuff the ruffian and put him in the trophy room. I’ll even have one of his legs made into an umbrella stand for you. Deal?’
‘Next caller?’ I asked.
‘Hello, yes, I think you have been beguiled, my dear. Everyone knows that Dragons are evil reptiles with no sense of reason and exist only to steal livestock, frighten small ladies and little old children and make us vote Marxist.’
‘Hello,’ said the next caller, ‘I think what you’re doing is absolutely right and you should follow your own obviously high moral code in this most difficult of situations.’
I liked this caller better.
‘Thank you, Mister... ?’
‘Strange. Or at least it will be. I think that I should adopt your name when we are married. Do you like Chinese food?’
‘Thank you, caller. I have Mr Savage from Worthing on line six. Hello, caller, go ahead.’
‘Hello, Miss Strange.’
‘Hello, Mr Savage. What’s your question?’
‘You call yourself a Dragonslayer, Miss Strange, but I have irrefutable evidence shown to me by a man in the pub that it is I who am the true Dragonslayer. I see you as an usurper, keeping me from my true calling.’
‘Well, Mr Savage,’ I began, thinking how wrong I was to suppose that I would get only one nutter on the phone-in, ‘perhaps you and I should discuss this inside the Dragonlands. As you know, only a true—’
But the line had gone dead.
‘Our next caller is Mrs Shue from the Corporate Kingdom of Financia. Hello, caller, go ahead.’
‘Hello, yes. My husband is up at the Dragonlands, waiting for this creature to die, and we wanted to claim a small hill overlooking a stream. I wonder if you can tell us the best place to go once the force-field is down?’
‘My advice to you,’ I began slowly, ‘is the same as for every person who might be waiting up at the Dragonlands.’
‘Yes?’ said Yogi Baird expectantly.
‘Go home. No matter what prophecy you’ve heard, the Dragon has done nothing wrong. He is fit and well and will doubtless last for years.’ I suddenly felt very angry. ‘What is the matter with you people? A noble beast may die, and all you are thinking about is lining your own pockets. You’re like a bunch of vultures hopping around a wounded zebra, waiting for the moment to poke your heads into the ribcage and greedily pluck out a piece of—’
I was almost shouting in my anger but stopped when one of the TV lights popped.
‘That’s it!’ said the engineer, looking up from his mixing panel. ‘They’ve pulled the plug. We’re off air.’
Yogi pulled his earpiece out and glared at me.
‘I have NEVER been pulled on a live programme before, Miss Strange! Who do you think you’re talking to? This is my show and I like to keep it light. You want to get on a soapbox? Go on Tonight with Clifford Serious.’
‘But—’
He hadn’t finished.
‘I’ve been on TV for twenty years so I think my opinions count for something. Let me give you some advice: act a bit more responsibly in front of thirty million people. The bosses at Yummy-Flakes are not going to be pleased. If I knew you were a troublemaker I would have interviewed Sir Matt Grifflon instead. At least he has a song he’s promoting—!’
‘Yogi, darling!’ yelled his producer, holding a telephone. ‘I’ve got the Zebra Society on the phone; they think we’re negatively portraying zebras as passive victims. Will you have a word? They’re a bit upset.’
Baird glared at me.
‘And I’ve got the Vulture Foundation on line two. They think your programme is spreading unfair stereotypes about a noble bird.’
‘See what you’ve done? A few badly placed words in this business and it’s curtains. Ratings are everything—how could you be so selfish?’
He turned, glared at me and took the phone from his producer.
‘No, sir,’ I heard him say. ‘I simply adore zebras...’
Foundling Trouble
I walked back to Zambini Towers. There seemed to be a buzz in the city. The influx of people eager to stake a claim had been huge, and all the shopkeepers had been doing a roaring trade, keeping those in constant vigil up by the Dragonlands well supplied with food, bedding and drink. Stocks of string had long ago run out, and a consignment of ten thousand claim forms had sold out in thirteen minutes.
Lady Mawgon was sitting in the lobby and looked as though she had been waiting to see me.
‘Miss Strange,’ she said, rising to meet me, ‘don’t think that becoming a Dragonslayer has in any way altered the low opinion that I hold of you and Master Prawns. Despite that frightful hag Zenobia refusing to supply us with any alternative foundlings, I have negotiated with the King of Pembroke to send us replacements. They arrive on Monday, so I will expect you to be packed and back at the Blessed Ladies of the Lobster by Monday lunchtime.’
She glared at me with a triumphant grin.
‘With the greatest of respect, my Lady,’ I replied, ‘I believe only Mr Zambini can sign our release papers.’
‘On the contrary,’ sneered Lady Mawgon, who had obviously been doing her homework, ‘the Minister for Foundling Affairs is King Snodd’s useless brother, and he owes me a favour. He will sign your papers.’