Riddell, the game hunter, had just made camp. He was halfway through his second bottle of brandy when a police box materialized in the middle of the savannah.

He looked at the box for a long time. He felt a bit hazy, but fairly solid on the details: it was a bright blue police box, smoking slightly, with a blinking light on top. There was a noise which sounded almost, but not quite, entirely unlike a siren. After a few minutes, the light on top went out. The smoke dissipated. There was a persistent smell of ozone.

Nothing happened.

Riddell looked at the bottle in his hand. He rubbed his eyes and looked up. It was still there. He looked down at the bottle. Up again. Blink. Blink.

Nothing happened.

"Blimey," Riddell said, and poured himself another drink.

#

Sometime later, Riddell staggered up to the police box and drummed on it with the end of his shotgun.

"Oy there, you bugger! I demand an explanation!"

There was a clattering from inside the box.

"I heard that!" he called. "You can't hide from me, you bloody blue bobby. Think you can just pop in anywhere, do you? I've got rights. I'm a British citizen. You hear me? I'll have you up in front of a magistrate before you can say—"

Slowly Riddell realized that the door had opened and he was sticking the business end of his gun in some chap's face. He was the sort of man who was youngish but couldn't be called young. He was dressed like a college professor but had hair like a schoolboy. He glared down the barrel of Riddell's gun, sighed deeply and crossed his arms over his chest. "By all the armies of Mars and Venus. What does a man have to do to get some privacy around here?"

Riddell blinked, then stuck his chin out and took a firm grip on the gun. "I ought to ask you the same thing," he said. "With considerably more justification, I might add. I worked to get here, you unctuous cheater. It took a lot of time and planning and it cost a lot of money. I didn't just show up." He paused. A hot wind blew across the savannah. "How on Earth did you get here?"

The professor chap blinked. "Is this Earth? Huh. The old girl must be worse off than I thought." He glanced back over his shoulder at something Riddell couldn't see. When he turned back he was biting his lip nervously. "What year is it?"

"What year is it?" Riddell repeated. "What year is it? It's eighteen ninety-eight, isn't it. Or possibly ninety-nine."

The man's brow furrowed. "Are you drunk?"

"Swimmingly. Thank goodness. I don't think I could handle this sober."

"Handle what?" The trespasser blinked owlishly. "Is something strange going on?"

"Yes!" Riddell burst out. "You are! This is the middle of West Africa, in case you were curious. You have to take a lorry, two ships and a train just to get back to civilization. And that's after a bloody long walk!"

"No wait, that can't be right," said the man, tapping thoughtfully on his teeth. "There's a fairly large village not far from here."

Riddell lowered the gun a degree. "I'm talking about England, old boy."

"Oh, well, England," said the fellow. "Right." He stuck his head out the door and sniffed. Then he licked a finger and put it into the wind. "Is that your camp over there?"

"Yes."

The professor shielded his eyes with his hand and squinted. "Any more like you there?'

"No one at all," said Riddell.

"Brilliant. Perfect! And about how far is it from here, do you think. The metric system will be fine, if you haven't got another one."

Riddell glanced over his shoulder. "Twenty meters."

"And the fabric."

Riddell shook his head. "I'm sorry? I believe you said fabric."

"Yes, the fabric. Of your tent. Is it flammable? Is it… specially treated in any way to prevent flaming. Is what I'm getting at."

Riddell just stared.

The professor stared at it for a long moment. Riddell got the sense that he was doing math in his head. Then he opened the door and stood aside. "I suppose you had better come in."