“Quite.”

“That bloody sheila…”

“Indeed.”

“Well.” The King hesitated for a moment, as if considering whether some gesture of solidarity — a slapped back, perhaps, or a matey hand on the shoulder — would be more likely to result in the offer of a cool one down at Saheed’s or an instinctive left hook to the jaw. He must have been a pessimist at heart because he smiled, shook his head and trotted off down the stairs. In human form this time, naturally. Eventually, even Dragon Kings learn by their mistakes.

Kiss stood for a few minutes, a hand on the half-open door. I don’t really need to say goodbye, he told himself.

The more usual form of ending a mortal/genie relationship was a string of vulgar abuse and a puff of evil-smelling green smoke. Nevertheless. Trends are there to be bucked, and fashions led. He pushed the door open and walked in.

About fifteen seconds later he came out again, moving fast and a sort of deep scarlet colour from the hairline to the collar-bone.

It only goes to show, he muttered to his immortal soul as he bolted down the stairs, humans and genies are on different wavelengths altogether, and probably for the best. As a genie, he hadn’t thought twice about strolling in unannounced on two mortals of different sexes who were just embarking on the traditional living happily together ever after. Exactly what went on under such circumstances was, he realised, not something he’d ever given much thought to, in the same way that the bricklayers don’t generally hang around to see what colour carpets eventually go into the house they’ve just built. By the time the happy ending was properly under way, he was usually long gone and starting on another job.

Well, now he knew; and, from what he’d seen, he was well out of it. For one thing, it looked so damn undignified. Not to mention uncomfortable. Cramp would be the least of your problems.

Each to their own idea of a good time. Compared to, say, a good game of pool, however, he was amazed that it had lasted as long as it had.

A good game of pool. And a quart or two of natural yoghurt with the lads, a really hot curry and so to bed. What could, in all honesty, be better?

Jane stirred, brushed aside the heavy residue of sleep and reached out towards the pillow beside her.

Nothing.

Or rather, a note. With a frown like gathering thunderclouds, she picked it up.

she read; and underneath, obviously added as an afterthought,

“An’ another thing.”

The other regulars propping up Saheed’s back bar bestowed on him the look of good-natured contempt that relatively sober people reserve especially for those of their fellows who’ve had more natural yoghurt than is good for them. One of them said, “Yes?”

“Humans,” said Kiss, “have no sense of proportion.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You mean, their heads are too big for their bodies, that sort of thing?”

Kiss shook his head, a courageous act under the circumstances. “You’re thinking,” he said, “of perspective. They’re quite good at perspective, actually, give the buggers their due. Used not to be, of course. Anyway, where was I?”

“Proportion. Lack of sense of, prevalence of among the more ephemeral species. You were pontificating.”

“Yeah. Specially women. Women have no sense of proportion,” Kiss said, swilling the dregs of cream round in his virtually empty mug, “whatsoever. All they care about is—”

“Yes?”

“Carpets. And curtains. And loose covers. And what colour the bloody things should be. I mean, I ask you.”

“What?”

“Sorry?”

“What do you ask us?”

Kiss blinked. “I ask you,” he continued, after a moment’s regrouping, “what the hell difference the colour makes to a cushion. I mean, are red cushions softer than blue ones, or what?”

“I think they like things to look nice. After all, they’re the ones who spend all their time at home, so I suppose it’s—”

“Balls,” said Kiss, with grandeur. “I mean, can you tell me without looking what colour your trousers are?”

“As a matter of fact, I can. They’re a sort of pale beige, with a faint—”

“All right, then, all right. Can you tell me what colour your bathroom curtains are? Go on, you can’t.”

“True, but since I’m a river-spirit I don’t actually have a bathroom. The rest of my place is done out in blues, greens and browns, and that’s in the lease.”

Kiss scowled. “You know what I mean,” he said. “All women care about is fripperies. Stupid, pointless things which—”

“And I suppose,” interrupted the river spirit, “that we devote all our time to higher issues. Like darts.”

“Applied ballistic research,” someone broke in. “Very important study.”

“Betting on horse-races.”

“Advanced probability mathematics.”

“Combined with equestrian genetics.”

“And meteorology, don’t forget. Depending whether the going is hard or soft.”

“I thought that was flying rocks and stuff.”

“Look,” Kiss broke in, “all right, we may not exactly cram each something minute with sixty seconds of whatsit, but in our case it doesn’t matter. Only matters if you’re gonna die some day. Ruddy women, now, they’re all going to go to their graves and nothing to show for it except a load of soft furnishings. Absolutely futile, if you ask me.”

The river spirit shrugged. “So?” he said. “What of it? Mortals are mortals and we’re us.” He grinned. “Vive la difference,” he added.

“Yeah, well…”

“Fancy a game of dominoes?”

“Now you’re talking.”

After leaving Saheed’s, Kiss wandered slowly up through the clouds and perched for a moment between the upper and the lower air. It was just after sunrise, and the big red splodge was beginning to give way to the first blue notes of a new day. From where he sat, Kiss could see the whole of the daylight side of the planet. He shaded his eyes with his hand and had a good look; something, he realised, that he hadn’t done for a long time.

There was a lot to look at. All over the surface, and particularly in the yellow sandy bits, the armies who had failed to get to the war on time were slouching listlessly at home, trying to remember as they did so what the hell all the fuss had been about. There now, Kiss told himself, if it hadn’t been for me…

So? What of it? Mortals are mortals and we’re us. If ever they do blow up this planet, we can just move to another one. Who gives at toss, anyway?

As he watched, the Earth turned. Night retreated to the right and advanced to the left. One step forwards, balanced for ever by one step back. How it ought to be, of course. Except that if you got together say a hundred genies, and by dint of some miracle you persuaded them all to work together, you could get them to haul another star in from another solar system and so position it that it could be day on both sides of the planet simultaneously. Sure, you’d have to make some adjustments to the mechanism, so that the seas didn’t dry up and that sort of thing; but it could be done. All manner of things could be done.

Probably just as well, Kiss told himself, that they aren’t.

On an impulse, he spread his arms wide and drifted down to the surface. He wasn’t aiming for anywhere in particular, and he ended up hovering a few feet above the water, somewhere in the middle of the sea.

There was nothing except water for miles in every direction; nothing to be seen except the regiments of waves, marching in perfect formation in accordance with the orders of the moon. Nothing, except a tiny speck, so small that he couldn’t even tell how far away it was.

For genies, though, thinking is doing, and without a conscious decision he found himself hovering directly over the speck, which turned out to be the neck of a floating bottle.