I must have been in this forest prison for a couple of hours now, and for want of anything else to do, I dozed off, but the sound of padding feet awoke me. Through half-open eyes, I saw the shape of a figure shuffling towards me, and I jumped up with a yelp.
The shape appeared human, a man, and he was rubbing his eyes as if he had just woken up. The light was dim in here, and the details of his face were a brown blur, but I could see that he was wearing a battered hat.
He was tall, lanky, and appeared to be having difficulty waking up. He must have been asleep in a dark corner for the entire time I had been here.
My eyes focused on his extraordinarily fair hair, brushed to one side, with a parting on the left. He was young, in his twenties, with dark brown skin, like that of an Asian, but considering his hair colour, he was most likely a white European with a heavily suntanned face.
He did not look in the least threatening, and I relaxed a little. His chin had slumped down, and his eyes were closed, as if he was having a last snooze standing up, and I had the time to inspect him more closely.
Of all things, he was wearing a pair of black sport shorts in poor condition, with what looked like a bunched pair of striped rugby socks overhanging a pair of old carpet slippers. This strange ensemble was completed by a short blue jacket that just reached waist level and a white silk scarf knotted around his neck. On his head was a blue beret that was more a badge than a hat with an insignia stitched on the front.
He yawned widely as he woke up, and stretching his arms, yawned again for good measure. He looked at me blankly, and I imagined his brain slowly getting into gear.
He looked friendly, and I greeted him politely in pidgin English.
"Holla! How far? My name na David. You dey here as prisoner too?
He looked puzzled and replied slowly, carefully emphasising every syllable of every word.
"Me no speaky your language, You speaky English? Compreny old chap? En-gl-ish?"
"Of course, I speak English," I said coldly.
He was startled by the tone of my reply.
"OK, old chap, keep your hair on. Then why are you speaking that damn lingo?
"I thought it was the standard language in these parts", I said.
"Maybe for the foreign johnnies, but the King's English suffices for us.
He bowed his head.
"Pilot Officer Lamb, RAF, at your service, sir. Shot down, were you? I don't recognise your uniform. Are you in one of our colonial services? I must say I like your flying jacket. You chaps get all the best gear."
He paused for a moment, remembering something.
"Incidentally, old man, do you think you could do something about your snoring? You woke me up in the middle of the most fantastic dream. I was back home, but strangely enough . . ."
I didn't let him finish.
"We have more important things to discuss than your dreams. What is your first name for a start, and how long have you been here?"
"Name's Hector, but most of the lads call me Bar."
"Bar? Why is that?"
"You know 'Baa Baa Lamb'. It's a sort of nickname; play on words, you know. It's the noise a lamb makes. Do you get it?"
"Yes," I said hastily. "I get it. How long have you been here?"
"In 'Chockey' you mean? Got here last night, just before you. Got my head down straight away for a quick kip."
"I meant in this area. How long in total?" I replied.
"Prisoner of war for some time, but they let me out now and then on the promise of good behaviour, but I can't resist sneaking back. It's the metal salvage, you know. Fellers up in the mountain give me a fortune for it in goods and a few cans of home-brewed beer. I can't tell you what I would give for a pint of good old English wallop, straight from the pump."
Pilot Officer Lamb smiled reminiscently and regressed into a sort of glassy-eyed stupor. He had quite forgotten I was there and ambled away to sit down in a corner.
What sense could I make out of this?
There was the airfield, of course, in the original world, and the sophisticated scam Joe, the Canadian pilot, had used to persuade some of the high-ranking machines that they could achieve a form of human consciousness if they lived as RAF pilots in life and death situations in the Second World War.
Was Lamb a long-lost descendant of one of those androids? He looked human, but then, they all did. I needed more time to think.
Meanwhile, Pilot Officer Lamb must have dreamt that he had consumed a few pints of wallop in the Officers' Mess and burst into song.
"We 'll eat meat again - in sunny hay one day – maybe Bear, maybe Hen – in sunny hay."
The last line he belted out at the top of his voice.
"Good old Vera Flynn", he said. "The forces, sweetheart."
The dome began to glow, and we heard the hum of electronic circuitry. Lamb winked and came over to where I stood.
"The court is in session, "he said drunkenly.
"Good luck, old boy. First offence?"
I nodded.
"Did they find you in possession of any swag?"
"No."
"You should be OK."
"Item Two," a voice boomed.
"That's you," nudged Lamb.
"Case dismissed."
"You lucky sod, "said Lamb. "You were too unimportant to bother with. Off you go."
He pointed to a gap that had appeared in the far wall. "Quickly now, they won't wait."
"Item Two," boomed the voice as I walked over to the exit.
"Forfeiture."
There was a sound of scuffling and a wail of anguish from Lamb. I turned to see that they had unscrewed his leg, and he was hopping back and forth in indignation.
"They have confiscated my right leg for a month – the rotters!"
Pilot Officer Lamb managed to lean himself against a tree and pounded the trunk with his fist.
"Give it back, you swine!"
I would have turned back to help, but my exit was beginning to close. I squeezed through and found myself on the very edge of the forest.
The temporary loss of a leg was hardly a catastrophe for an android, and I was surprised at their leniency. But how would they have dealt with a serial human transgressor?
I could not predict the answer, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that this parallel world was not an exact copy. Where do I go next? There was just the metal forest and the mountain.
It had to be the mountain.