He felt that he was lying on his back on a rough surface, his hands scrabbled around and confirmed – rough and rocky and dark; he turned his head and there was no light, all around him everywhere was dark; he lifted his right hand and brought it close to his face, but he couldn't see the luminous dial; blind, he though, “I've gone blind,” and he heard his voice echo around as if he was in a Cathedral; his hands dropped to his sides and he heard another sound, like a cough, a gentle cough, muffled as by a hand or handkerchief: “is there anyone there?” he called out; “yeah,” came the reply, “whyn'tya open yer eyes?” which he did, quickly, too quickly, and they felt seared by bright light; so then he opened them slowly, using his hands to shield them, and glanced around the vast space, and the figures seated around him, a group of men, in a, what was it, a cave, no, bigger, a Cavern! he looked at the men, “where is this? who are you? how long have I been here?” and they laughed, and one spoke: “lotta questions, pal, howabout we ask and you answer?” and he nodded, rolling over and managing to get his knees under him and slowly rise, he looked around and saw a boulder nearby, which he reached and sat on, and waited; “okay, name, rank and number?” which he found strange, but replied: “my name is Dane, Clement Dane, Sir Clement Dane, Professor of Mediaeval Archaeology at the University of , , , , ,” for the life of him he couldn't remember, raised his hand to his head, found a trickle of blood and a rather large swelling, and “oh!” that was pretty sore; “had a bit of a knock, have we, my lord?” same voice, slightly mocking, and he looked around and spotted the questioner, but what were they wearing, these men? they seemed to be army uniforms, but what army? “are you soldiers?” he asked, and the man clapped silently, mockingly, “give his lordship a drink, Alfalfa,” and the man addressed brought a water bottle and thrust it into Dane's hands; he looked at it before drinking, saw the stencil US Army, and took a swig, and remembered 'fatigues' that was it; “okay, Clem,” the man, he was obviously the leader, addressed him and Sir Clement felt himself rankle at the disrespectful nomenclature, but held any resentment in check for the nonce: “here's how it works – this place is a kinda maze of tunnels, but we've been pretty thorough, we've mapped them and we know there are only three entrances and we have them guarded round the clock, three watches, nothing can come in or go out, but we see it, we know it, we ok it, so, the question is 'how did you get in?' cos see, the first we know about you is you're lying here, like you fell through the ceiling,” he points up and laughs, “which could account for your egg-head, of course, none of us did that to you, we found you exactly as you were when you woke up – oh, we checked you were alive, but that's all, didn't move you, didn't search you, well, other than just check for explosives, booby-wires, and remove whatever was in your pockets, see,” and he pointed with his feet at a little pile – wallet, cigarettes, some papers, nothing he could remember having or not having, and he suddenly touched his face – his pince nez were gone yet he could see clearly, how odd! but the American was speaking again: “see, you look a regular dandy, okay, a bit mussed up, dusty and all, with that bonk on your conk, but certainly a cut above most of us,” and Danes wondered at the blandishments, but he hadn't served in Intelligence for nothing, and recognised it as softening up, an attempt to win his confidence, and the American continued: “don't normally see such well-set folks out here, not even from the other side,” which earned a laugh from his group and Danes saw himself as they must see him, all the embonpoint of a Rubensian figure, a soft academic, with a large derrière from sitting in comfortable armchairs, and he felt emboldened to speak up: “I can understand your suspicion of me, I'm suspicious about myself right now, I feel completely out of place and out of sorts,” and one of the men chuckled, “like a fish outa water, eh?” which got more grins and laughs, but spurred Danes on, for he felt he really had to know, and so he asked: “would it be against the Official Secrets Act, or whatever you have in the States, to tell me what the date is, I'm quite confused from these bangs on my head, and one of the men asked the leader, “is it January, February, June or July?” singing the four months, of course, and the leader said: “we've been a bit cut off here, and slightly off-kilter ourselves, so I'm not sure of the exact date, but it's still '68 for sure,” and Sir Clement Danes asked stupidly, “1968?” and the bemused laughs told him exactly where he was, and he fainted, rolled off the rock and cracked the other side of his head on the hard surface, which startled the soldiers, although one of them joshed another, “Hey Mitch, the prof just caught sight of your Ogry whiskers there, plain scared him to death!” and received a playful swat in return, as the leader went over to check on their strange visitor!