“I don’t want anything to do with it,” the fisherman reiterated. “You’re asking me to aid and abet a theft, commit murder—”

“Jeez, mate, they’re insects.”

“Insectide, robbery with violence, obstruction of the highway and heaven knows what else, for no readily apparent reason—”

The King was almost in tears. “For crying out loud,” he said, “it’s a flamin’ adventure. What sort of a bloke are you?”

“Basically law-abiding,” Asaf replied coldly. “Has it also occurred to you that I might miss? With only a very scanty knowledge of archery and just three arrows—”

“It’s a magic bow, you dozy bastard!” the King yelled. “You can’t miss. Believe me.”

“It’s still wrong,” Asaf replied. “If there’s a dispute between these people, they ought to take it to the proper authorities.”

The donkey was quite close now, and slowing to a gentle trot. The camels, however, were accelerating.

“Look,” shouted the King. “Unless you rescue the chick, she won’t be able to give you the three white stones, which—”

“What three white stones?”

“The three magic white stones which have strange and supernatural powers, you stupid drongo!” the King snapped. “Of all the…”

Asaf sighed, and opened the door. “Oh, all right,” he said.

“But I’m not shooting anybody, and that’s final. You wait here and don’t interfere.”

He climbed out of the camper. His legs were stiff with cramp after the long drive, and his left foot had gone to sleep. He hobbled over to where the donkey had come to an expectant halt.

“Allah be praised!” the girl exclaimed. She was radiantly beautiful, and around her neck hung a single white pearl which shone with a strange inner light. “Quick, my prince, take this bow and—”

“Be quiet!” Asaf snapped. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.” He trudged past her and stood between her and the camels, which slewed to a halt. The lead camel-rider drew a curved blue sword and brandished it ferociously.

“Out of the way, infidel,” he snarled, “or I shall cut off your head!”

Asaf shook his head. “Don’t be silly,” he said briskly. “And for your information, I’m not an infidel.”

The camel-rider reined in his steed and frowned. “Yes, you are,” he said. “By definition,” he added.

“Rubbish.”

The other two camel-riders drew their scimitars and waved them, but with rather less enthusiasm.

Asaf didn’t move. “Well?” he said.

“Well what?”

“Ask me a question about Islamic belief and culture. That’ll show whether I’m an infidel or not.”

“It’s just an expression,” the second camel-rider started to say, but his superior shushed him.

“All right, Mister Clever,” said the first camel-rider. “What’s the first verse of the fortieth chapter of the Koran? You don’t know, do you? I thought you…”

Asaf cleared his throat. “This book is revealed by Allah,” Asaf recited in a loud, clear voice, “the mighty one, the all-knowing, who forgives sin and accepts repentance, the bountiful one, whose punishment is stern. Want me to go on?”

The camel-riders looked at each other.

“OK,” said the first camel-rider. “So you’re not an infidel. Now will you please shove off and let us get on with our work?”

Asaf stayed where he was. “Bet you don’t know the next bit,” he said.

The camel-rider glowered at him. "Course I do,” he said.

“Go on, then. Prove it.”

“Huh.” The first camel-rider sniffed. “There is no god but Him, all shall return to him, none but the unbelievers dispute the teachings of Allah—”

“Excuse me,” the second camel-rider interrupted.

The first camel-rider whirled round in his saddle. “What?” he said.

“It’s not teachings, it’s revelations. The revelations of Allah.”

The first camel-rider scowled. “It says teachings, son of a dog!” he growled. “Do you dare—?”

“Actually,” muttered the third camel-rider, “he’s quite right, it is revelations. Here, have a look. At the bottom of the second page, three lines up.”

“What!” roared the first rider. “You dare to contradict me, spawn of filth! I shall cut off—”

“Here, look for yourself, it’s there in black and…”

“He’s right, you know, Trev. It does say…”

There was the sharp, brittle sound of steel clashing on steel. Asaf sighed, shook his head sadly, and sauntered back to where the girl was waiting.

“Idiots,” he muttered softly. “All right, give me the stones and sling your hook.”

“Allah be praised, oh my prince,” said the girl nervously, rather as if she’d been expecting a rather different cue. “Thanks to you—”

“Yes,” Asaf said. “We’ll take all that as read, shall we? The stones, please.”

Behind him there was a roar of triumph. The third rider lay slumped on the sand, and the first rider was brandishing his sword again.

“If I were you,” Asaf said, “I’d hand them over and get the hell out of here before those two sort out their differences. Keep straight on down this road about ten miles and you’ll find a telephone box. Phone the police. OK?”

The girl nodded, confused, and handed him a white cloth bag which held something heavy. Before she could say anything else, Asaf turned on his heel, hobbled back to the van and slammed the door.

“I trust,” he said, putting the van into gear and driving off, “that there’s not going to be much more of this sort of thing, because a man can only take so much pratting around before his patience starts to wear thin. I’m telling you this,” he added, “just so’s you’ll know. OK?”

“OK, mate. Actually…”

Asaf turned his head and gave the King a long, cold look. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “There’s more.”

“Fair crack of the whip, chum, it is a quest.”

Asaf glanced quickly in the mirror, slowed down and started to turn the van around.

“Hey,” the King protested, “what are you…”

“Going home,” Asaf replied. “Look, I may just be a simple fisherman, but I have my self-respect. So let’s just call it quits. You get out of my life and stay out, and everything will be fine.”

“But the sheila,” the King said. “It’s all fixed up!”

“Then unfix it.”

“I can’t!”

Asaf stopped the van. “What,” he asked quietly, “does that mean?”

The King bit his lips. “Like I said,” he replied mournfully.

“Everything’s set up. You wished, remember?”

“Wealth without limit was what I wished for,” Asaf replied. “There wasn’t anything in the original specifications about running amok killing and stealing half-way across the blasted continent.”

“For pity’s sake, mate, this is my job on the line here. I’ve made arrangements…”

Asaf leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “All right,” he sighed. “On three conditions.”

“Anything.”

“One, you don’t sing.”

“No worries, mate, not another note.”

“Two,” said Asaf, “we keep these stupid adventures to the basic minimum. No magic spells, no more beautiful maidens than absolutely necessary, and positively no gratuitous folldore. Agreed?”

“You got it.”

“Three.” He leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition. “Keep your bloody shoes on.”

Two genies, rather the worse for six pints apiece of semi-skimmed with double-cream chasers, lurched out of Saheed’s and hailed a taxi.

“Where to?”

“Isson this bitta paper,” mumbled Nick. “Fastasyoulike.”

“You’re the boss,” replied the taxi. It hovered for a moment, straightening out its corners, and lowered itself to ground level. The genies climbed aboard.

“Home, James,” Con declaimed, “an’ don’t spare the Axminster.”

The carpet rose like a very flat Harrier, made itself stiff in every fibre of its being, and shimmered away into the night sky.

The cold air, rushing past their ears, served to cut the milk fug, and by the time they arrived at the destination scribbled on the milk-mat both genies were — not sober, exactly, but at least 90 per cent in charge of their principal motor functions. The ideal state, in other words, for attempting something very silly indeed.