“G’day.”

Asaf spun on his heel, missed his footing on the wet deck and sprawled against the mast, barking his shin.

“You again,” he snapped. “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

The Dragon King, hovering in a cloud of purple smoke, looked offended. “Lighten up, cobber,” he replied. “I’m a dragon, remember? And dragons don’t bludge on their mates. She’ll be right, you’ll see.”

“What the hell are you talking about, you insufferable reptile?”

“Look, mate.” The Dragon King contracted his formidable eyebrows, until he looked for all the world like a bejewelled privet hedge. “No offence, but I reckon I’ve had about enough of your whingeing for one adventure, thank you very much.” He nodded towards the sky. “That sheila,” he continued. “She’s on her way.”

Asaf blinked. “The rich one?” he asked.

The King nodded. “Too right,” he replied. “In fact, she should be along any minute now. So let’s have a bit less of The complaints, right?”

“Right.” Asaf frowned. “You’re sure about that?” he queried. “I mean, we are in the middle of the sea. I don’t really see where she’s going to…

WHOOSH.

The carpet zagged down like a turbocharged pigeon, braked in mid-air and hovered. God knows how it managed it, but it somehow gave the impression that it had an invisible meter, and that it was running.

Jane opened her eyes. If the truth be told, she wasn’t one hundred per cent taken with what she saw.

She appeared to have come to rest half-way through a dragon; in fact she was wearing the bloody thing round her neck, like a horse collar.

Now that, she said to herself, really is uncalled for. God knows, I’ve tried to be reasonable throughout this whole nightmarish business, nobody can say I haven’t given it my best shot, but this really is…

The dragon was floating about ten feet above the deck of the ship; as was the carpet, which appeared to have come to rest half in and half out of the dragon’s right shoulder. Seen close to, the dragon looked as solid as a Welsh full-back, but Jane couldn’t feel anything there. Probably, she decided, just as well.

The dragon’s head pivoted slowly on its long, elegant neck and turned towards her.

“G’day,” it said. “Asaf, this is Jane. Jane, Asaf.”

Jane glanced down and saw that there was indeed a human being on the deck of the ship — a youngish man with a mop of black hair and a prominent nose, wearing a green anorak. He seemed to be staring at her in, well, disbelief.

“You’re joking,” he said.

The dragon appeared disconcerted at this. “No, mate, straight up. Get stuck in.” It winked a round blue eye.

“No way,” the man said angrily. “If you think I’ve come all this way…”

“Don’t you come the raw prawn with me, mate,” the dragon replied irritably. “Jeez, what’s a bloke got to do before you’re satisfied?” He scowled, and mouthed the words Loads of money… The man shook his head.

“Money,” he said firmly, “isn’t everything. Look, is there some sort of ombudsman I can take this up with, because—”

“Excuse me,” said Jane.

“Ombudsman!” growled the dragon. “You take the flamin’ biscuit, you do. When I think of some of the stringy old dogs—”

“Yes, but just look, will you? There’s absolutely no way—”

“Excuse me.”

“Scheherezade,” continued the dragon, “had a face on her that’d curdle milk. You don’t know when you’re well-off, mate.”

“I am definitely going to complain to someone and when I’ve finished with you, you’ll be lucky to get a job swimming round and round in a small glass bowl—”

“Excuse me,” said Jane, “but I think your ship is sinking.”

“You keep out of this,” snapped Asaf. “Now then, I don’t propose wasting any more breath on you. I shall be seeking legal advice on this, and—”

“Stone the crows, mate, she’s right. Hey, there’s water coming up through the—”

“Don’t change the subject. My brother happens to be an accountant and I reckon we’re looking at breach of contract, breach of statutory duty, trespass to the person and a bloody great claim in respect of pain, suffering, inconvenience, loss of earnings…”

“Bugger me, she’s about to split. You want to get out of there quick, I’m telling you…”

“…false imprisonment, failure to report an accident, fraud, dangerous flying…”

“Look…”

The ship sank.

Funny, the way some ships just go under all of a sudden. Others hang around for days, leaning over on one side and allowing the survivors plenty of time to choose their eight gramophone records from the ship’s library. This one, however, just went glop! and fell through the surface of the water like a lead weight.

Sinbad the Sailor watched her go down from the comfort of the one lifeboat, and shrugged. On the one hand she had been his ship, in which he had crossed all the oceans of the world, and inevitably a part of his soul went down with her. On the other hand, he had just renewed his insurance.

The cramped living quarters, he thought. The smell of stale bilge water. The rats. The ship’s biscuits, some of which were hard enough to polish diamonds with. The crew.

As he watched the last few bubbles rise and fade, therefore, his feelings were mixed. About 40 per cent happiness, and the remaining 60 per cent pure unalloyed pleasure.

Kiss picked himself up off the clouds and snarled.

To every cloud, the wiseacres say, a silver lining. Be that as it may; this one, as far as Kiss could judge, was lined with big lumpy chunks of rock, half-bricks and the like. In his list of My All-Time Favourite Things To Land On, it didn’t score highly compared with, say, feather mattresses or trampoline cushions. It was also soggy and full of water vapour.

All in all he was working up a pretty good head of aggression. And the healthiest way to vent off the perfectly natural and wholesome aggression which lies buried in all of us is, of course, to thump somebody. Ask any psychiatrist.

Fortunately, he didn’t have far to look for someone to thump. Not far, and upwards.

Philly Nine looked down nervously. There was something about Kiss’s demeanour, and the way the cloud he was lying on was turning into fizzing steam, that made him feel uncomfortable and uncertain about his immediate future. He decided to try diplomacy.

“Now then,” he said pleasantly, “you don’t want to be late for your date, do you?”

“Yes.”

“But think,” Philly reasoned, “of that sweet little girl of yours, counting every second before you come swooping down to rescue her. Think of the grateful smile on her face, the words of praise, the—”

“Are we thinking of the same person?”

“What about your honour as a genie? Her wish is your command, remember.”

“When I catch you,” Kiss replied calmly, “I’m going to rip your lungs out.”

“If you catch me,” Philly replied, and fled.

“Excuse me,” said Jane.

Asaf glanced up from the piece of driftwood he was clinging to and frowned. “What?” he said.

“I said excuse me.”

The sea, fishermen say, is a cruel playfellow. Actually they tend to express themselves in earthier, more basic terms, but that’s the gist of it. For his part, Asaf had never really come to terms with the being-surrounded-on-all-sides-by-water aspect of fishing, despite his best endeavours, and consequently wasn’t really in the mood to make new friends. His tone, therefore, was abrupt.

“Piss off,” he said.

“Be like that,” Jane replied equably. “All I was going to say was, if you wanted a lift to dry land, I can take you as far as the coast. Probably,” she added, for she was a realist.

Asaf glowered up at the carpet, hovering about three feet over the waves. “I don’t believe in you,” he growled. “Go away.”

“Don’t believe in me?”

“You heard me. You’re some sort of fatuous mythical practical joke, like everything else that’s been happening to me lately. On the other hand, I do believe in this piece of driftwood. It’s not much, but right now it’s all I’ve got. Sling your hook.”