Little Milton was a typical English village, nestling at the foot of the hills whose higher slopes now concealed so portentous a secret. There were very few people about on this summer morning, for the men were already at work and the women folk were still tidying up after the exhausting task of getting their lords and masters safely out of the way. Consequently Crysteel and Danstor had almost reached the centre of the village before their first encounter, which happened to be with the village postman, cycling back to the office after completing his rounds. He was in a very bad temper, having had to deliver a penny postcard to Dodgson’s farm, a couple of miles off his normal route. In addition, the weekly parcel of laundry which Gunner Evans sent home to his doting mother had been a lot heavier than usual, as well it might, since it contained four tins of bully beef pinched from the cookhouse.

“Excuse me,” said Danstor politely.

“Can’t stop,” said the postman, in no mood for casual conversation. “Got another round to do.” Then he was gone.

“This is really the limit!” protested Danstor. “Are they all going to be like this?”

“You’ve simply got to be patient,” said Crysteel. “Remember their customs are quite different from ours; it may take some time to gain their confidence. I’ve had this sort of trouble with primitive races before. Every anthropologist has to get used to it.”

“Hmm,” said Danstor. “I suggest that we call at some of their houses. Then they won’t be able to run away.”

“Very well,” agreed Crysteel doubtfully. “But avoid any thing that looks like a religious shrine, otherwise we may get into trouble.”

Old Widow Tomkins’ council-house could hardly have been mistaken, even by the most inexperienced of explorers, for such an object.