“I got you, yes.” The fish turned over and floated on its back for a second or two. “What about,” it suggested, “rich old boilers who’ll pop off and leave you all their money?”

Asaf shook his head. “Too much like hard work,” he said. “And besides, you’re displaying a very cynical attitude towards human relationships, which I find rather distasteful. Let’s stick to rich, shall we, and leave the sheilas element to look after itself.”

“Could be a problem with that,” the fish mumbled. “The sheilas are, like, compulsory. Chicks with everything.”

“How depressingly chauvinistic.”

“Yeah, well.” The fish waggled its tail-fin. “Sort of goes with the territory, mate. You don’t have to treat ’em like dirt if you don’t want to,” it added hopefully. “I mean, if you want to, you can buy ’em flowers.”

Asaf sighed. “Gosh,” he said, “how heavy this flask is. If I have to stand here negotiating for very much longer, my arm might get all weak and…”

“All right, you flamin’ mortal bastard!” the fish screeched. “Just watch what you’re doing with that thing.”

“Well?”

“I’m thinking.” The fish swam in slow circles, occasionally nibbling at the sides of the flask. “OK,” it said. “But this is the best I can do.”

“I’m listening.”

“Just the one sheila,” said the fish persuasively. “And she’s stinking rich—”

“Beyond the dreams of avarice?”

“Too right, mate, too right. Richest chick this side of the black stump. And all you’ve got to do is rescue her, right?”

Asaf scowled. “You haven’t been listening,” he said. “All I’m interested in is the money. Climbing up rope ladders and sword-fights with guards simply aren’t my style. I get vertigo.”

“No worries,” the fish reassured him. “I’ll handle all that side of things, just you see.”

“Sure,” Asaf growled. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re a two-inch-long fish. Don’t you think that’d prove rather a handicap when it comes to rescuing wealthy females?”

“Huh!” The fish sneered. “Now who’s the bigot?”

“But…”

“Just ’cos I’m small and I’ve got fins—”

“Be reasonable,” Asaf said. “You can’t escape your way out of a thermos flask. How are you going to cope with heavily guarded castles?”

“I’ll have no worries swimming the moat,” the fish replied. “Anyway, I’m only a fish right now. As soon as I can get home and out of this flamin’ fish outfit, I can go back to being a dragon. Dragons can rescue anybody, right?”

“I suppose so.” Asaf rubbed his chin. On the one hand, the Dragon King hardly inspired confidence. On the other hand… He looked down at the boat, the empty nets, the threadbare sail. “Very well, then. So long as it’s guaranteed success.”

“Trust me.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“Look…”

“All right,” Asaf said. “So what do I do now?”

The fish darted up the meniscus of the flask. “Just chuck me back in,” he said, “and then row to the shore. I’ll be there waiting.”

“Straight up?”

“On me honour as an Australian,” the fish replied solemnly. “No bludging, honest.”

“Oh, all right then.” Asaf jerked the flask sharply sideways, emptying its contents into the sea. There was a soft splash.

“Waste of bloody time,” he muttered to himself. Then he rowed to the shore.

He was just pulling his boat up on to the beach when there was a sharp WHOOSH! immediately behind his back, and sand everywhere. He turned slowly around and saw a very old, very battered Volkswagen dormobile, with lots of stickers inside the windscreen. He frowned; and suddenly realised that instead of his comfortable old fishing smock, he was wearing strange new clothes: a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off, shorts, trainers and no socks. There was also some sort of sticky white stuff all over his nose and lips.

“Hey!” he said angrily.

WHAM!

Hovering over his head was a huge, green scaly lizard.

“G’day,” it said. “Jeez, mate, you don’t know how good it feels to get me proper duds back on again after being squashed inside that poxy little fish skin. Ready to go?”

Asaf stepped back. He had to retreat quite some way before he could see the whole of the dragon. He began to wish he hadn’t started this.

“Hey,” he said, “what’s going on? Who are you, anyway, the local area franchisee for the Klingon Empire?”

The dragon chuckled. “I’m a dragon, mate,” he replied. “What did you expect, a little skinny bloke with glasses? Now, are you ready for off?”

“Off where?”

“Off to see this incredibly rich sheila,” the dragon replied. “Now I’d better warn you, she’s not exactly a real hot looker, but so what? Like we say in Oz, you don’t care what’s on the mantelpiece when you’re poking the fire.”

“All right,” Asaf muttered. “But what’s with the broken-down old van? Why the stupid clothes?”

The dragon looked offended. “We’re going on our travels, right?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

The dragon’s lips parted in a huge smile. “Well,” he said, “if we’re going walkabout, we might as well do it properly.”

Asaf was on the point of objecting vehemently when it occurred to him that the Dragon King was perfectly right. Wherever you go, he remembered his brothers telling him, whichever inhospitable corner of the globe you wind up in, you can always be sure of finding three tall, bronzed Aussies in beach clothes and a beat-up old camper. And you can bet your life that when the chips are down, they’re not the ones whose fan-belt breaks three hundred miles from the nearest garage.

The Dragon King waves a giant forepaw and vanished. A moment or so later, when he’d recovered, Asaf noticed that the dormobile now had a chrome dragon mascot on the bonnet where the VW insignia ought to have been.

“This is silly,” he told himself. Then he climbed into the van and turned the key.

Love, according to all the best poets, works wonders. Under the influence of love, men and women scale impossible mountains, brave tempestuous seas, face down dangers that any rational human being would run a mile from; love does for the heart and the soul what a five-year course of anabolic steroids does for the muscles. Mankind will do virtually anything for love.

Blind terror, however, knocks love into a cocked hat.

It wasn’t love, for example, that brought Vince, white as a sheet and jumping like a kitten at loud noises, round to Jane’s front door at nine o’clock sharp, clutching a huge bunch of flowers and wearing the tie she’d given him at the office Christmas party (hastily unwound from a dripping tap and ironed).

The door opened.

“Hello, Vince,” Jane said. “What lovely flowers! Goodbye, Vince.”

The door started to close. Love at this point would have given it up as a bad job and gone home.

“Jane,” Vince said. “Hi there. It’s been a long time.”

“Not nearly long enough. Get lost.”

Through the quarter-open door, Vince could see strange things: miles of plush carpet, acres of richly patterned wallpaper, stacks and rows of colour-supplement furniture. Somewhere in his subconscious, the change in Jane’s environment registered. He smiled, trying as he did so to keep his teeth from chattering.

“I think we ought to talk,” he said.

“Do you? Why?”

“Urn.” Vince dredged his mind for something to say and, in the silt at the bottom of his memory, came across a phrase. It had lodged there, muddy and forgotten, ever since he’d idled away a day’s flu watching one of the afternoon soaps.

“We’ve got to sit down and talk this thing through,” he said solemnly. “Otherwise we might regret it for the rest of our lives.”

Jane considered. “You might,” she said. “Depends on how thick-skinned you are. If being called a heartless, two-timing little scumbag is likely to scar you for life, I’d suggest you leave now. Mind you,” she added, “I expect you’re well used to it by now. Must happen to you all the time.”