'Tempest, Midsummer Night's Dream, Macbeth,' I muttered, counting them off on my fingers. 'Where's the fourth?'

'Henry VI Part 1, act four, scene 1: "hedge-born swaine".'

'I always thought that was an insult, not a hedgehog,' I observed. 'Swaine can be a country lad just as easily as a pig — perhaps more so.'

Snell sighed. 'Well, we've given her the benefit of the doubt – it helps with the indignity of being used as a croquet ball in Alice. Don't mention Tolstoy or Berlin when she's about, either – conversation with Tiggy is easier when you avoid talk of theoretical sociological divisions and stick to the question of washing temperatures for woollens.'

'I'll remember that,' I murmured. 'The bar doesn't look so bad with all those pot plants scattered around, does it?'

Snell sighed again.

'They're Triffids, Thursday. The big blobby thing practising golf swings with the Jabberwock is a Krell, and that rhino over there is Rataxis. Arrest anyone who tries to sell you Soma tablets, don't buy any Bottle Imps no matter how good the bargain, and above all don't look at Medusa. If Big Martin or the Questing Beast turn up, run like hell. Get me a drink and I'll see you back here in five minutes.'

'Right.'

He departed into the gloom and I was left feeling a bit ill at ease. I made my way to the bar and ordered two drinks. On the other side of the bar a third cat had joined the two I had seen previously. The newcomer pointed to me but the others shook their heads and whispered something in his ear. I turned the other way and jumped in surprise as I came face to face with a curious creature that looked as though it had escaped from a bad science fiction novel – it was all tentacles and eyes. A smile may have flicked across my face because the creature said in a harsh tone:

'What's the problem, never seen a Thraal before?'

I didn't understand; it sounded like a form of Courier Bold but I wasn't sure so said nothing, hoping to brazen it out.

'Hey!' it said. 'I'm talking to you, Two-eyes.'

The altercation had attracted another man, who looked like the product of some bizarre genetic experiment gone hopelessly wrong.

'He says he doesn't like you.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I don't like you either,' said the man in a threatening tone, adding, as if I needed proof: 'I have the death sentence in seven genres.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' I assured him, but this didn't seem to work.

'You're the one who'll be sorry!'

'Come, come, Nigel,' said a voice I recognised. 'Let me buy you a drink.'

This wasn't to the genetic experiment's liking, for he moved quickly to his weapon; there was a sudden blur of movement and in an instant I had my automatic pressed hard against his head – Nigel's gun was still in his shoulder holster. The bar went quiet.