In these circumstances, thought Graham, the best thing to do was to behave as matter-of-factly as possible until the hallucinations got fed up and went away.

“If you really have a spaceship in the hills,” he remarked, “surely you can get in touch with it and ask someone to come and rescue you?”

“We want to handle this ourselves,” said Crysteel with dignity. “Besides, you don’t know our captain.”

They sounded very convincing, thought Graham. The whole story hung together remarkably well. And yet…

“It’s a bit hard for me to believe that you can build interstellar spaceships, but can’t get out of a miserable village police station.”

Danstor looked at Crysteel, who shuffled uncomfortably.

“We could get out easily enough,” said the anthropologist. “But we don’t want to use violent means unless it’s absolutely essential. You’ve no idea of the trouble it causes, and the reports we might have to fill in. Besides, if we do get out, I suppose your Flying Squad would catch us before we got back to the ship.”

“Not in Little Milton,” grinned Graham. “Especially if we could get across to the ‘White Hart’ without being stopped. My car is over there.”

“Oh,” said Danstor, his spirits suddenly reviving. He turned to his companion and a lively discussion followed. Then, very gingerly, he produced a small black cylinder from an inner pocket, handling it with much the same confidence as a nervous spinster holding a loaded gun for the first time. Simultaneously, Crysteel retired with some speed to the far corner of the cell.

It was at this precise moment that Graham knew, with a sudden icy certainty, that he was stone-sober and that the story he had been listening to was nothing less than the truth.

There was no fuss or bother, no flurry of electric sparks or coloured rays—but a section of the wall three feet across dissolved quietly and collapsed into a little pyramid of sand. The sunlight came streaming into the cell as, with a great sigh of relief, Danstor put his mysterious weapon away.