The name's Harry Larkington, former able-bodied seaman, HMS Panther. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm sailin' in the waters of the south Atlantic on my yacht Valerie. Sun's almost down, and I'm ready for a nip of rum and some grub.

The world of the 22nd century has been tough to get used to, though it ain't my fault I'm stuck here. Strange how you leave a place you know, time passes and when you return, it's like the world you left never existed.

And look what we came back to: A London that was all silvery and shiny, though Buckingham Palace ain't changed much, 'cept for that glass tower to a Queen Lizzy Two, and there's this monument to Nelson. I think they call it Trafalgar Square. I mean, he was good 'n all, and we all loved the bugger, but a whole bloody square?? Don't make sense to me.

Worse, you leave with one king in charge and you return to find a new queen's in charge and you've never heard of her.

"Queen Sara?" Who's she? Oh, and Her Majesty flies around in this strange contraption. Seems horses and carriages ain't good enough anymore.

But you know, without Captain John Morrow I don't know if we'd ever made it back to see all this glass and steel. I'd follow the captain to hell and back. I guess I did, when you come to think of it.

Well, despite the changes, you can still get a nice cup o' tea and, if you look hard enough, a bite of kidney pie and a pint. And thanks to me you don't have to be in the Royal Navy to get figgy-dowdy! It wasn't like I invented it, but I gave it to the common man (and made a bloody fortune doin' it).

Can't stand the taste of the stuff any more, but when I think about it, it was the figgy-dowdy that got us into trouble and it was the figgy-dowdy that saved me.

So how did a topman like myself end up rich and happy, livin' on his own yacht? Well, I'll tell you, but first let me pour some of this good Jamaican rum.

It began in the autumn of 1807. We were returnin' from a refit to our squadron in the Indian Ocean. We'd just rounded the Cape (took a nasty beatin' in a storm, we did) and we were racin' along under a press of canvas, when a lookout yells, "On deck there. Flashes two points on the larboard bow!"

I was workin' off the fore topgallant yard when I heard the cry and looked. Flashes they were. Hard to say what it was: lightnin', cannon flashes or what.

The captain and first lieutenant had their glasses trained in that direction. Then the flashes stopped. There was no sign of a sail, so we continued on our way.

An hour or so later, after bein' piped to deck for the evenin' meal, the flashes were seen again, but this time they were much brighter, and they seemed to hang in a cluster just above the surface of the water. Worse yet, the flashes were movin' in our direction, and not a sail nor a pennant to be seen.

From the quarterdeck the captain ordered us to clear for action. Captain's a fine sight. Tall bugger but thin as a jib. He's a fightin' captain; in the thick of it at Aboukir. The man's scarred all over, includin' one nasty burn mark on his neck.

Whatever was out there was approachin' fast. The cannon were run out and smoke from the matches in the tubs wafted across the deck.

"Mr. Egan, if she doesn't show her colors, prepare to fire a broadside as she comes into range," the captain ordered.