Free Queen Victoria's Revenge by Harry Harrison Page B

onward.
    â€œGlasgow,” the driver announced as the road lifted onto a bridge that spanned a slate-gray river.
    â€œI’m hungry,” Tony said suddenly as his waking stomach threw off the anesthesia of the alcohol and painfully called attention to itself.
    â€œWe cannot stop,” the colonel announced. “Most of the men in this car are wanted by the police. We will go hungry for the glory of the counterrevolution.”
    â€œThat has nothing to do with me,” Tony said petulantly. “Or you for that matter, Colonel. That hot bill won’t have reached the bank yet and no one knows we are involved in this thing.”
    â€œYou are correct,” the colonel said with instant military decision. “Drop us off at Central Station, where we will mix with the milling crowds and where strangers will not be noticed, and come back in a half an hour.”
    The colonel seemed to run a taut ship, or VW bus, when it came to discipline, because, other than some rapidly vibrating eyebrows, there were no complaints about this state of affairs. The driver made a number of wrong turnings but eventually let them out next to a gloomy and imposing Victorian structure. Though it was only seven in the morning the station was bustling with Scottish life, as well as the visitors the colonel had mentioned. The colonel took Tony firmly by the arm and spoke gently into his ear.
    â€œI am a perfect shot and I have a silenced revolver in my side pocket. Make any attempt to escape, any at all, and there will be a small poof of sound and you will be one with eternity. Understood?”
    â€œUnderstood, understood. That is not the first time I have heard it recently, either. Look, Colonel, could we buy some newspapers to read with breakfast, you must be as interested as I am in the latest developments.”
    The colonel was. They purchased The Times and The Scotsman and entered a great glowing buffet rich with the odor of frying fish, cooking bacon, bubbling oatmeal and other northern gustatory delights. Tony forgot his troubles and stood on tiptoe to look over the shoulders to make his choice. The shoulders immediately ahead of him, broad and blue-coated, turned about as he bobbed expectantly and he found himself looking into the surprised face of Captain Sterling Haycroft, pilot of the skyjacked aircraft.

SEVEN
    â€œWhat the devil are you doing here, Hawkin? I was told you were in London.”
    No ready response sprang forward instantly so Tony had to resort to an echoed version of the same question.
    â€œTubby told me you were with the aircraft and wouldn’t leave.”
    â€œHe was right. But the owners telegraphed me to co-operate with the police and sent out a guard with a police dog, some local outfit called Fangs and Truncheons, so I did what I was ordered. Looked at all the mug books in London, then they sent me up here to look at more pics the local police have. The night train just got in.”
    â€œTrain?”
    â€œSure. You don’t think I fly when I don’t have to? And you?”
    If Tony had not been thinking of a quick answer the colonel had. He leaned forward and smiled ingratiatingly at Haycroft.
    â€œMay I introduce myself. I am Juan Garcia, a Mexican national and an old friend of Tony’s. When I read of his presence in the papers I instantly invited him to stay at my comfortable home. In a further attempt to relax his nerves I have brought him on a brief motoring holiday to Scotland and to visit a mutual acquaintance who is studying urological surgery at the university here. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
    â€œLikewise. I hope you have a good time.” Haycroft turned and seized a tray, apparently taken in by the story. Tony felt an all too familiar jab in the side as the colonel spoke. “Take the tray, dear friend, for both of us. My hand is still sore from the bashing I took at cricket the other day at Lord’s.” For all his other