"What about," Graham said, pointing one finger at Slater, who pursed his lips and tapped his foot impatiently on the fire-surround, "those people who like Barry Manilow and John Cage?"

Slater rolled his eyes. "This is Science Fiction, Graham, not Monty Python. Anyway, Gloppo discovers the car-wash has been unfaithful in his absence with a metallic-blue Trans Am -"

"I thought that was an airline."

"It's a car. Now be quiet. Gloppo finds the Trans Am has been screwing the car-wash -"

"And the car-wash's been riding the car," Graham sniggered.

"Shut up. Gloppo disconnects the low-fidelity car-wash. Now then..."

There were more people in the room now; groups of men and women; most of them young, about his age, stood and talked and drank and laughed. The two girls he had noticed earlier were standing talking to some other girls. Graham hoped they all realised that just because he was standing talking to Slater, that didn't mean he was gay too. He looked back, nodding appreciatively, as Slater, talking quickly, waving his arms about, eyes glittering, seemed to approach the end of the story.

"... shit-scared because he's about to be blasted into particles even smaller and more radioactive than Ronald Reagan's brain, goes to the loo; by sheer coincidence the crap he does solidifies in the intense cold of outer space and the pursuing spaceship runs into it at about half the speed of light and is totally destroyed.

"Gloppo and his pal discover the joys of oral sex, the Freudians blow up the world, but that was going to happen anyway, and our two heroes live comparatively happily ever after." Slater grinned widely, took a deep, panting breath, then a drink. "What do you think? Good, isn't it?"

"Well..." Graham said, looking at the ceiling.