Queen Victoria's Revenge by Harry Harrison

order. And, since he was here against his will, they would have to transport him home as well. Perhaps he ought to stay and help with the investigation, that was a good idea, get in a little sightseeing at the same time. Mother of Parliaments, Runnymede, Stratford-on-Avon! There would be plenty to see and do. His numbed posterior was forgotten in the pleasures of anticipation.
    The countryside, which until this moment had been completely pastoral, cows, copses, farmhouses, fields of grain, brooks and such, now changed abruptly as they swung with trepidation onto a sort of parkway. It was a miniaturized version of the Jersey Turnpike, which it greatly resembled, despite the fact that the cars were driving on the wrong side of the road. This seemed to work all right as long as all of the drivers were aware of the reversal. The police car hurled itself along at a dramatic thirty miles an hour through the landscape, which was about the same landscape you might see along any highway in the Western World. There were tantalizing glimpses of Olde England from time to time, but not many. Coming around a turn they had a good view, for a number of seconds, of a white stone building with a thatch roof, over the door of which hung a colorful signboard that read GRAVEDIGGERS ARMS . Memory of many British films struck him quickly and he groped around for the word, pointing a fluttering finger.
    â€œThat building, there, the white one with the sign. Is that, what do you call it, a pub?”
    Finch flicked a quick official eye in the direction of the building and after a ruminative moment produced a reluctant “aye.” Tony watched earnestly as it faded from sight.
    â€œThey have drinks there, don’t they? Food too?”
    After much thought, words failing him apparently, Finch nodded his head.
    â€œThat’s really great. Listen, would you stop at the next one, I haven’t eaten since yesterday sometime and could really use a drink too.”
    â€œNo pubs on motorway.”
    â€œWell then pull off the motorway,” Tony said peevishly. “A few minutes won’t make any difference to Scotland Yard but will make a big difference with me.”
    Finch rolled the thought around for quite a while, looking at all sides of it with careful police scrutiny, yet could find no fault. The result was a final muttered “aye” as he turned off at the next exit. A few hundred yards down the road was a half-timbered establishment called The Royal Oak. It looked like he was in luck, royal! Here was a place where perhaps the king came to drink, or was it a queen now? They parked and entered a door labeled SALOON BAR , which certainly sounded like a step in the right direction.
    The interior was all he had imagined and then some. Hum of low voices, rattle of glasses, bottles and glassware twinkling in the mirror behind the bar.
    â€œYes gentlemen, may I help you?” said a round, red, pleasant woman who stood framed by her wares.
    â€œI’m for that,” Tony said. “What do you recommend, Mr. Finch?”
    â€œPint of bitter,” Finch said darkly. It didn’t sound too optimistic but Tony went along and had one himself. The bar woman pumped industriously on a large black handle and filled two glass tubs with an amber liquid which, while being flatter and a bit warmer than the beer he knew, certainly was better in every other way.
    â€œThat will be thirty pence, if you please.”
    â€œI’ll get this,” Tony said, easily beating the policeman to the wallet draw. He pushed a five dollar bill across the dark wood and the woman looked at it dubiously.
    â€œOnly real money here, sir, I don’t know what that is.”
    Abraham Lincoln scowled up blackly from the bill, having been reduced by an air flight to a specie of Monopoly paper. Finch nodded somberly, as though he had expected no better, and placed a many-sided silver coin on the bar.
    â€œLook, I’m sorry about that.