Blair led Rip by the hand into Tomfoolery’s, a pub half a block from Doctors’ Commons.

Rip looked around the interior and decided it looked like an English pub should, at least from his American perspective, based solely on TV shows and movies.

Dark wooden panels lined the walls, except for the one behind the bar with all the bottles. The bar itself seemed made from ancient wood, long ago rubbed smooth by elbows and glassware.

The atmosphere felt light. Laughter and conversation drifted out onto the street. A group of three men threw darts back in a corner.

The sight of the bar brought Rip a sudden pang of regret, as he remembered Maloney owed him four beers for getting those bogies off her tail.

And that wasn’t very long ago, either. I wonder how she’s doing?

Rip stuffed those thoughts away. There was nothing he could do about it right now. Instead, he focused on the present, looking around the pub and taking everything in.

He noticed everyone here wore the khakis common to the Venture Society.

“This is like a cop bar,” he murmured to himself. “Only for the RVS.”

“Evenin’, Lady Brooke,” the bartender said, reaching for a bottle of white wine and a glass as they approached. He poured and handed it to her.

“Thank you Shem. This is Sergeant Ripley Coulter, our newest member.”

The bartender’s eyes grew wide.

“You’re the one that brought down that airship!”

“Well, I had help. I couldn’t have done it without my team.”

“That’s not what I heard. I heard you done went up on your own and took care of it all by yourself. Killed all them elites and nearly got a big fish, too!”

Conversation died away from nearby tables, as all eyes centered on Rip. He looked around, uneasily.

“I’m afraid there’s not much to say, really. I already gave a report . . .”

Blair caught his note of discomfort.

“You’re embarrassing him, all of you. Give him a beer, Shem, and put it on my tab.”

“Actually, I’d rather not drink. I’ll take a Coke instead.”

“A what?”

He locked eyes with Shem for a moment, then remembered he was in another world.

“Oh, yeah. Uh, how about a bottled water?”

“You want water. In a bar. In a bottle?”

Rip sighed.

“Do you have anything non-alcoholic?”

Shem gave him an odd look, but he reached into an ice chest and pulled out a tall glass jar full of a white liquid.

“A pint of milk for the man who single-handedly took down a black airship today. On the house.”

Blair led him to a table in the back. He sipped the milk along the way, then licked his lips.

“Is this raw milk? Have you guys learned about pasteurization yet? Wait, I bet you don’t have a Louis Pasteur, do you?”

“Quit babbling nonsense, Ripley. Sit down and relax. This is where we come to blow off steam at the end of the day, not try and solve all the world’s problems.”

“Raw milk can be a serious problem.”

They sat at a table and she nursed her wine. He took a few more sips before deciding not to drink any more milk.

At least it’s cold. Still, better safe than sorry.

Minutes later Bixby showed up, stopping by the bar to grab a snifter of cognac before joining them at the table.

Rip said, “So, nobility and commoners alike frequent this place?”

Bixby smiled and said, “The Venture Society sees little difference in social rank. Mind you, it still makes some difference. But when your life depends on the people you go into the vaults with, it can strip away any veneer of formality. It can also alter some preconceived social norms.”

They spoke about the events of the day for a while. About the time everyone finished drinking, except for Rip and his glass of milk, Chance showed up. He grabbed a pint on the way in and joined them at the table.

“Well, Mr. Chance. What did you discover?”

“The Nobs insist they were only hired to fetch the Sergeant this morning. Another gang gave them the go-to information, and a hundred pounds. Or rather, half that and half on delivery.”

“What gang?”

“Septic Rats.”

Blair frowned and said, “What do the Septic Rats want with Ripley?”

Chance shrugged, so she looked at Bixby.

“The Septic Rats have been known to work with sewer troopers before,” the baron said, rubbing his chin. “I suppose it’s possible that someone inside a vault used them as a go-between.”

Rip said, “Why not just hire the first group to do it? Seems more efficient.”

“The Septic Rats don’t do well in the outside world, Sergeant. They’re . . . rather odiferous.”

“That’s just they’re reputation,” Chance said. “Begging your pardon, Colonel, but the Septic Rats are no more smelly than your average bloke on the street. But it is true they dislike fraternizing and such, and going out much in public. They have contacts with all the major gangs, though. If someone were intent on hiding their tracks, the Septic Rats would be good agents to use.”

Conversation stalled at this point as Bixby sat back to reflect upon this new information, Chance worked on his beer, and Blair finished the last of her wine.

“Who’s for another?” she said, breaking the silence.

“I wouldn’t have too many of those, were I you,” Chance said, nodding at the empty wineglass.

“And why is that, Bobby?”

“Because we got an appointment with the Septic Rats in about an hour. At the Chelsea pump station, in fact.”

“Ah! Brilliant, Mr. Chance,” Bixby said. “And how did you arrange this little gathering?”

Chance tipped back his mug and finished off the beer. Then he set it down on the table next to Blair’s wineglass and pointed at Rip.

“I promised we’d bring him.”