"Cunning beasts, those." He picked himself up. "My fault. I should have made them easier to catch. Too much sherry and not enough blancmange."

She sidled up to him again. "My husband, Donny Stevens, was a real man, for all his faults."

Argonheart returned suddenly to his knees. He cupped his hands around something which wobbled, glinting green and yellow in the pale sunshine. "Oh, this makes up for everything. See what it is, Miss Ming?"

"A dollop of jello?"

"Dollop? Dollop!" He breathed upon it. He fondled the rounded, quivering surface. He spoke reverently. "This is an egg, Miss Ming. One of my creations has actually laid an egg. Good heavens! I could breed them. What an achievement!" His expression became seraphic.

"A man like you is capable of anything, Argonheart. I often felt Donny was like that. I never thought I'd miss the bastard."

He was searching the ground for more eggs.

"You remind me of him a little," she said softly. "You are real, Argonheart."

Argonheart Po's only weakness was for metaphysical speculation. Miss Ming had captured his attention. Stroking his egg, he looked round. "Mm?"

Her breast rose and fell rapidly. "A real man."

He was curious. "You believe everyone else imaginary, then? But why should I be real when the others are not? Why should you be real? Reality, after all, can be the syllabub that melts upon the tongue, leaving not even a flavour of memory…"

Her breathing became calmer. She turned to contemplate the half-melted remains of a completely unsuccessful stegosaurus.

"I meant," she said, "that Donny was a manly man. Stupid and vain, of course. But that's probably all part of it. And obsessed with his work — well, when he wasn't screwing his assistants." She laid her hand upon his trembling egg. "I like you, Argonheart. Have you ever thought…?"

But the chef's attention was wavering again as he bent to scoop up a little iguanadon. He placed his egg carefully upon a slab of marzipan rock and held the iguanadon out to her for her inspection.

With a frustrated sigh she licked the beast's slippery neck. "Too much lime for my taste." She gave a theatrical shudder and laughed. "Far too bitter for me, Argonheart, dear."

"But the texture? It was the texture, alone, I needed to know about."

The iguanadon struggled, squawking rather like a chicken, and was released. It ran, glistening, semi-transparent, green and orange, in a crazy path towards the nearby cola lake.

"Perfect," she said. "Firm and juicy."

He nodded sadly. "The small ones are by far the most successful. But that will scarcely satisfy Abu Thaleb. I meant the monsters for him. The little beasts were only to set off the large ones — to set the scale, do you see. I was too ambitious, Miss Ming. I tried to produce too much and too many." His fat brow wrinkled.

"You haven't been listening, Argonheart, dear," she chided. "Argonheart?"

Reluctantly he withdrew from his regrets. "We were discussing the nature of reality."

"No."

"You were discussing what? Men?"

She patted at the yellow flounces of her frock. "Or their absence?" She chuckled. "I could do with one…"

He had picked up a ladle in his plump, gloved hand. She followed him as he approached his lake, bent on a final taste.

"A man? What could you do with one?" He sipped.

"I need one."

"A special kind?"

"A real one."

"Couldn't you make something — someone, I mean — to suit you? Doctor Volospion would help." He looked across the tranquil surface, like molten amber. "Delicious!"

She seemed pained. "There's no need, dear, to throw that particular episode in my face."

"Um. Yet, I'm indulging myself, I fear." He stooped, dipped his ladle, drew it to his red lips, sampled self-critically and nodded his head. "Yes. The conception was too grandiose. Given another day I could put everything to rights, but poor Abu Thaleb expects … Ah, well!"

"Forget all about that for a moment." Lust was mounting in her. She slipped a hand along his massive thigh. "Make love to me, Argonheart. I've been so unhappy."

He rubbed his several chins. "Oh, I see."

"You knew all along, didn't you? What I wanted?"

"Um."

"You're so proud, Argonheart. So masculine. A lot of girls don't like fat men, but I do." She giggled. "It's what they used to say about me. All the more to get hold of. Please, Argonheart, please!"

"My confections," he murmured lamely.

"You can spare a few minutes, surely?" She dug her nails into his chest. "Argonheart!"

"They could —"

"You must relax sometime. You have to relax. It gives you a new perspective."

"Well, yes, that's true."

"Argonheart!" She moved against him.

"I certainly cannot improve anything now. Perhaps you are right. Yes…"

"Yes! You'll feel so much better. And I will, too."

"Possibly…"

"Definitely!"

She pulled him towards a pile of discarded dark brown straw. "Here's a good place." She sank into it, tugging at his gloved hand.

"What?" he murmured. "In the vermicelli?"

It was already beginning to stick to her sweating arms, but it was plain that such considerations were no longer important. "Why not? Why not? Oh, my darling. Oh, Argonheart!"

He drew off his gloves. He reached down and removed a strand or two of the vermicelli from her elbow and placed it neatly on her neck. He stood back.

She writhed in the chocolate.

"Argonheart!" She mewed.

With a shrug, he fell beside her in the chocolate.

It was at the point where she had helped him to drag the tight scarlet smock up to his navel while wriggling her own blue lace knickers to just below her knees that they heard a shriek that filled the sky and saw the crimson spaceship falling through the dark blue heavens in an aura of multicoloured flame.

Argonheart's belly quivered against her as he paused.

"Golly!" said Mavis Ming.

Argonheart licked her shoulder, but his attention was no longer with her. He glanced back. The spaceship was still falling. The noise was immense.

"Don't stop," she said. "There's still time. It won't take long."

But Argonheart was already rolling over in the vermicelli, pulling his smock back into position. He stood up. Shreds of half-melted confectionery dropped from his legs.

A dreadful wail escaped Miss Ming. It was drowned by the roar of the ship.

With her fist she pounded at the vermicelli. It flew in all directions. She appeared to be swearing. And then, when the ship's noise had dropped momentarily to a muted howl, and as Mavis Ming drew up her underwear, her voice, disappointed, despairing, could be heard again.

"What a moment to pick! Poor old Mavis. Isn't it just your luck!"

It was a spaceship from some mythical antiquity, all fins and flutes and glittering bubbles, tapering at the nose, bulbous at the base, where its rockets roared. It slowed as they watched, falling with a peculiar swaying motion, as if its engines malfunctioned, the vents first on one side and then on the other sputtering, gouting, sputtering again until, just before the ship reached the ground, the rockets flared in unison, bouncing the machine like a ball on a water jet, gradually subsiding until it had settled to earth.

Miss Ming, observing it from her nest of chocolate worms, tightened her lips.

Even after the ship had landed flame still rolled around its hull, sensuous flame caressed the scarlet metal.

The surrounding terrain sent up heavy black smoke, crackling as if to protest; the smoke curled close to the ground, moving towards the ship: eels attracted to wreckage.