The wrought iron gate in the high wall which separated the gravel at the front of the House from the paving stones at the side of it swung open smoothly, it clanged gently against the stop.

I realised that the Captain and the man in the DPM kilt had both vanished into the shrubbery, and that three of the remaining four of us had drawn knives.

It seemed that the weather was conspiring in the drama, for it grew gloomier, and the wind blew raindrops into our faces.

A man looked around the pillar of the archway, and smiled, then stepped out onto the flagstones, his hands held out in greeting. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind.

'He said that he was going to try to get to the equipment and find someone who could perhaps help up. He seems to have suceeded beyond all expctations.' He beamed at us. 'Welcome to this continuum. I'm afraid it will not be at all like your usual situation, but we will do our very best to keep you safe from the fashion police.'

We were all staring, for we all knew of this man - at least in our own reality we did. Now we met him in person, but he was wearing such apparel as we never would have imagined.

He wore trousers. Cheap and nasty fabric, rather like poor quality curtain material, dark blue trousers and a jacket with fine stripes of three shades of blue. A white shirt and a dark blue tie the same shade as the trousers. His belt and shoes seemed to be made from black plastic.

The Captain and the man in the camo kilt came out from hiding and joined us as we chorused his name.

'Hamish?'