Further down the bar, though not much further, there was a snag in the machine of commerce.

"Listen, I know, I know, that there's no-one in this world called Arthur Guinness, alright? I've come to terms with that. I've also reconciled with myself that Ireland is several space-time continua away. This no longer gives me pause. But I've explained the concept to you; beer, made with roasted barley, and foamy. And dark. And thick. Now, why can't you bring me a pint of twice-damned Guinness?"

"I, uh, I don't-" the poor barmaid stuttered in the face of the customer's perplexed anger. This woman had stormed into the pub several hours ago, and was evidently dissatisfied with both the service and the product, though even the barmaid suspected that this wasn't the source of her frustration.

The irate customer leaned back, shrugging off her rain-soaked uniform jacket. "Listen, I don't blame you, really I don't, you're an attractive enough young lady. But I've had three of these ales, and they taste like the juices leeched from a tinned beef item. Even the trenches at Ypres had better beer than this!"

The serving girl was shaking slightly. She looked sidelong at the bartender, but he was clearly engaged in his own contest. There was no backup coming from that direction. "I, I'm sorry, Miss-"

"Group. Captain. Do you so these stripes? RAF. Do not call me 'miss' again. I didn't serve my bleeding country to go around being called 'miss'..."

"Oh, s-sorry, um. I'll...see if there's anything better in the, ah, in the cellar."

"That's right you will. 'Miss'. Ha! If I had a pound for every...break that girl's nose, next time she..." the difficult patron muttered, trailing off as she tried vainly to enjoy the foamy urine she had been served.

Group Captain Relt PeltFelter of the British Empire's Royal Air Force swiveled on her barstool and looked out over the busy public house. She took a drag from her hempen cigarette, hoping to settle her raging temperament. It didn't help greatly, but the effect of being wreathed in thin smoke seemed to separate her from the bustling proceedings.

It was all this land travel, that was the problem. Land and sea. Relt was a natural pilot, never more comfortable than behind the yoke of a steamjet, or even just lounging on a luxury dirigible. Having to ride in a sailboat, or, god-forbid, an oxcart, was very nearly a physical injury. Two things she needed to acquire, if ever she ventured back home: keg of Guinness, and an aeroplane.

Cigarette having burned down, Relt ground it out on the scarred bar counter. She picked through the dish of complimentary nuts, finding only discarded shells. The pilot groaned, her stomach chiming in with similar sentiments. She looked further down the bar. Near the elbow of a male patron of the pub (who had just downed what appeared to be antifreeze) was a bowl overflowing with unfamiliar seeds and nuts, compliments of the house.

"Hey, you there!" Relt shouted down the bar, hands cupped around her mouth, "Fancy lad with the white coat and supercilious demeanor! Pass me that bowl. I need something which will stop the flavor of hog-swill with hops in from assaulting my palate."