Indra, however, gave him the answer he needed right away.

'Oh, you've met the Dragon Lady!'

'Is that what you call her? What's her real name – and can you get me her Ident? We were hardly in a position to touch palms.'

'Of course – no problemo.'

'Where did you pick up that?'

Indra looked uncharacteristically confused.

'I've no idea – some old book or movie. Is it a good figure of speech?'

'Not if you're over fifteen.'

'I'll try to remember. Now tell me what happened – unless you want to make me jealous.'

They were now such good friends that they could discuss any subject with perfect frankness. Indeed, they had laughingly lamented their total lack of romantic interest in each other – though Indra had once commented, 'I guess that if we were both marooned on a desert asteroid, with no hope of rescue, we could come to some arrangement.'

'First, you tell me who she is.'

'Her name's Aurora McAuley; among many other things, she's President of the Society for Creative Anachronisms. And if you thought Draco was impressive, wait until you see some of their other – ah – creations. Like Moby Dick – and a whole zooful of dinosaurs Mother Nature never thought of.'

This is too good to be true, thought Poole.

I am the biggest anachronism on Planet Earth.

Until now, he had almost forgotten that conversation with the Space Agency psychologist.

'You may be gone from Earth for at least three years. If you like, I can give you a harmless anaphrodisiac implant that will last out the mission. I promise we'll more than make it up, when you get home.'

'No thanks,' Poole had answered, trying to keep his face straight when he continued, 'I think I can handle it.'

Nevertheless, he had become suspicious after the third or fourth week – and so had Dave Bowman.

'I've noticed it too,' Dave said 'I bet those damn doctors put something in our diet...'

Whatever that something was – if indeed it had ever existed – it was certainly long past its shelf-life. Until now, Poole had been too busy to get involved in any emotional entanglements, and had politely turned down generous offers from several young (and not so young) ladies. He was not sure whether it was his physique or his fame that appealed to them: perhaps it was nothing more than simple curiosity about a man who, for all they knew, might be an ancestor from twenty or thirty generations in the past.

To Poole's delight, Mistress McAuley's Ident conveyed the information that she was currently between lovers, and he wasted no further time in contacting her. Within twenty-four hours he was pillion-riding, with his arms enjoyably around her waist. He had also learned why aviator's goggles were a good idea, for Draco was entirely robotic, and could easily cruise at a hundred klicks. Poole doubted if any real dragons had ever attained such speeds.

He was not surprised that the ever-changing landscapes below them were straight out of legend. Ali Baba had waved angrily at them, as they overtook his flying carpet, shouting 'Can't you see where you're going!' Yet he must be a long way from Baghdad, because the dreaming spires over which they now circled could only be Oxford.

Aurora confirmed his guess as she pointed down: 'That's the pub – the inn – where Lewis and Tolkien used to meet their friends, the Inklings. And look at the river – that boat just coming out from the bridge – do you see the two little girls and the clergyman in it?'

'Yes,' he shouted back against the gentle sussuration of Draco's slipstream. 'And I suppose one of them is Alice.'

Aurora turned and smiled at him over her shoulder: she seemed genuinely delighted.

'Quite correct: she's an accurate replica, based on the Reverend's photos. I was afraid you wouldn't know. So many people stopped reading soon after your time.'

Poole felt a glow of satisfaction.

I believe I've passed another test, he told himself smugly. Riding on Draco must have been the first. How many more, I wonder? Fighting with broadswords?

But there were no more, and the answer to the immemorial 'Your place or mine?' was – Poole's.

The next morning, shaken and mortified, he contacted Professor Anderson.

'Everything was going splendidly,' he lamented, 'when she suddenly became hysterical and pushed me away. I was afraid I'd hurt her somehow -'Then she called the roomlight – we'd been in darkness – and jumped out of bed. I guess I was just staring like a fool...' He laughed ruefully. 'She was certainly worth staring at.'

'I'm sure of it. Go on.'

'After a few minutes she relaxed and said something I'll never be able to forget.'

Anderson waited patiently for Poole to compose himself. 'She said: "I'm really sorry, Frank. We could have had a good time. But I didn't know that you'd been – mutilated."

The professor looked baffled, but only for a moment. 'Oh – I understand. I'm sorry too, Frank – perhaps I should have warned you. In my thirty years of practice, I've only seen half a dozen cases – all for valid medical reasons, which certainly didn't apply to you...'

'Circumcision made a lot of sense in primitive times – and even in your century – as a defence against some unpleasant – even fatal – diseases in backward countries with poor hygiene. But otherwise there was absolutely no excuse for it – and several arguments against, as you've just discovered!'

'I checked the records after I'd examined you the first time, and found that by mid-twenty-first century there had been so many malpractice suits that the American Medical Association had been forced to ban it. The arguments among the contemporary doctors are very entertaining.'

'I'm sure they are,' said Poole morosely.

'In some countries it continued for another century: then some unknown genius coined a slogan – please excuse the vulgarity – "God designed us: circumcision is blasphemy". That more or less ended the practice. But if you want, it would be easy to arrange a transplant – you wouldn't be making medical history, by any means.'

'I don't think it would work. Afraid I'd start laughing every time.'

'That's the spirit – you're already getting over it.'

Somewhat to his surprise, Poole realized that Anderson's prognosis was correct. He even found himself already laughing.

'Now what, Frank?'

'Aurora's "Society for Creative Anachronisms". I'd hoped it would improve my chances. Just my luck to have found one anachronism she doesn't appreciate.'

Indra was not quite as sympathetic as he had hoped: perhaps, after all, there was some sexual jealousy in their relationship. And – much more serious – what they wryly labelled the Dragon Debacle led to their first real argument.

It began innocently enough, when Indra complained:

'People are always asking me why I've devoted my life to such a horrible period of history, and it's not much of an answer to say that there were even worse ones.'

'Then why are you interested in my century?'

'Because it marks the transition between barbarism and civilization.'

'Thank you. Just call me Conan.'

'Conan? The only one I know is the man who invented Sherlock Holmes.'

'Never mind – sorry I interrupted. Of course, we in the so-called developed countries thought we were civilized. At least war wasn't respectable any more, and the United Nations was always doing its best to stop the wars that did break out.'

'Not very successfully: I'd give it about three out of ten. But what we find incredible is the way that people – right up to the early 2000s! – calmly accepted behaviour we would consider atrocious. And believed in the most mind-boggled -'