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mixed. The gossips at Vermilion Sands soon decided there was a good deal of mutant in her, because she had a rich patina-golden skin and what looked like insects for eyes, but that didn’t bother either myself or any of my friends, one or two of whom, like Tony Miles and Harry Devine, have never since been quite the same to their wives.
    We spent most of our time in those days on the balcony of my apartment off Beach Drive, drinking beer – we always kept a useful supply stacked in the refrigerator of my music shop on the street level – yarning in a desultory way and playing i-Go, a sort of decelerated chess which was popular then. None of the others ever did any work; Harry was an architect and Tony Miles sometimes sold a few ceramics to the tourists, but I usually put a couple of hours in at the shop each morning, getting off the foreign orders and turning the beer.
    One particularly hot lazy day I’d just finished wrapping up a delicate soprano mimosa wanted by the Hamburg Oratorio Society when Harry phoned down from the balcony.
    ‘Parker’s Choro-Flora?’ he said. ‘You’re guilty of overproduction. Come up here. Tony and I have something beautiful to show you.’
    When I went up I found them grinning happily like two dogs who had just discovered an interesting tree.
    ‘Well?’ I asked. ‘Where is it?’
    Tony tilted his head slightly. ‘Over there.’
    I looked up and down the street, and across the face of the apartment house opposite.
    ‘Careful,’ he warned me. ‘Don’t gape at her.’
    I slid into one of the wicker chairs and craned my head round cautiously.
    ‘Fourth floor,’ Harry elaborated slowly, out of the side of his mouth. ‘One left from the balcony opposite. Happy now?’
    ‘Dreaming,’ I told him, taking a long slow focus on her. ‘I wonder what else she can do?’
    Harry and Tony sighed thankfully. ‘Well?’ Tony asked.
    ‘She’s out of my league,’ I said. ‘But you two shouldn’t have any trouble. Go over and tell her how much she needs you.’
    Harry groaned. ‘Don’t you realize, this one is poetic, emergent, something straight out of the primal apocalyptic sea. She’s probably divine.’
    The woman was strolling around the lounge, rearranging the furniture, wearing almost nothing except a large metallic hat. Even in shadow the sinuous lines of her thighs and shoulders gleamed gold and burning. She was a walking galaxy of light. Vermilion Sands had never seen anything like her.
    ‘The approach has got to be equivocal,’ Harry continued, gazing into his beer. ‘Shy, almost mystical. Nothing urgent or grabbing.’
    The woman stooped down to unpack a suitcase and the metal vanes of her hat fluttered over her face. She saw us staring at her, looked around for a moment and lowered the blinds.
    We sat back and looked thoughtfully at each other, like three triumvirs deciding how to divide an empire, not saying too much, and one eye watching for any chance of a double-deal.
    Five minutes later the singing started.
    At first I thought it was one of the azalea trios in trouble with an alkaline pH, but the frequencies were too high. They were almost out of the audible range, a thin tremolo quaver which came out of nowhere and rose up the back of the skull.
    Harry and Tony frowned at me.
    ‘Your livestock’s unhappy about something,’ Tony told me. ‘Can you quieten it down?’
    ‘It’s not the plants,’ I told him. ‘Can’t be.’
    The sound mounted in intensity, scraping the edges oft my occipital bones. I was about to go down to the shop when Harry and Tony leapt out of their chairs and dived back against the wall.
    ‘Steve, look out!’ Tony yelled at me. He pointed wildly at the table I was leaning on, picked up a chair and smashed it down on the glass top.
    I stood up and brushed the fragments out of my hair.
    ‘What the hell’s the matter?’
    Tony was looking down at the tangle of wickerwork tied round the metal struts of the table. Harry came forward and