“Get outta bed, John, ya lazy sod; we’re gonna be late!” cried Paul, yanking the covers off of his sleeping bandmate’s bed. John opened one eye and squinted blearily at his unwelcome friend.

“Fuck off,” John replied, yawning. “I was up late last night. I’m not goin’.”  He reached over the side of the bed to retrieve his blanket, but Paul was still holding the other end, and he yanked it further away, stepping back closer to the door. Unless he missed his guess, that was a prudent move. John was beginning to look pretty dangerous.

“Give it!” warned John, “Give it now, or I’ll cripple yer, no joke.”  Still clutching the blanket, Paul fled the room. With a bellow of fury, John was up and after him, heedless of the fact that he wasn’t wearing anything at all.

“So, John, going casual today?” asked George, glancing up from where he sat upon the sofa in the living room. He had the newspaper open and was dressed for the day. “Daring choice, that.”

“Where’s Paul?” John demanded. He was still furious that Paul had gotten away with his blanket.

“Probably gone down for breakfast. I’ve already finished. Don’t know as they’ll let you into the dining room in that state of affairs, though. I think you’d better try another look,” said George mildly, turning his attention once more to his paper.

Ringo came into the room, combing his hair as he walked. He stopped in mid comb when he saw John. “Bold choice, John,” he said, pocketing his comb.

George didn’t look up, but added, “I was just tellin’ him the same thing. A bit too bold, though, perhaps.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Ringo countered, “I hear it’s all the rage in darkest Africa.”

“Very fuckin’ hilarious,” said John. “Ye belong on the telly, Ring. Yer a regular Spike Milligan.”

John went back into his room, and George and Ringo looked at one another, shrugged, and went back about their business.

John decided that he might as well stay up. He’d never get back to sleep now anyway, and he could settle with Paul later. He showered and dressed, and when he emerged, the others had vacated the suite. He was pretty hungry, so John proceeded to the dining room downstairs.

***

Half an hour later, crowded into the back of a rented car, the four Beatles assaulted their manager, who sat in front, with questions.  Ringo: “Who’s interviewin’ us, then, Brian?”  George: “Are they gonna give us lunch?”  Paul: “Will there be judies at the party after?”  John: “Are we gonna have time to get a nap before tonight’s show?”

“One at a time, boys,” sighed Brian, as always the soul of patience when dealing with his beloved Beatles. “It’s Life magazine, there will be a buffet, I’m sure there will be some girls about, and I very much doubt that there will be any time for napping.”

Paul, George, and Ringo sat back, satisfied, and John peered moodily out the window, not seeing the tugboats in the river beneath the George Washington Bridge. He was really tired, and he was still pretty angry with Paul, who had prudently chosen to place himself on the other side of the seat, with Ringo and George between himself and John.

The press conference went well; the boys were at their delightfully irreverent best. Even John cheered up, answering one reporter who asked about his new book with a passage of poetry it contained. By the time the press conference was over, he was back to his usual self. The food was good, and the Scotch was flowing liberally. A pretty blonde sidled over to him, and he decided that things were definitely looking up. The girl pulled him away into an adjoining room, and he did not protest.

***

“Oh, there you are,” said George, averting his eyes as the blonde scrambled to gather her clothes around her. “C’mon, John, time to leave.”

“Right along,” replied John, pulling on his trousers as George closed the door again. “Sorry, gotta go,” he told the girl.

“Will I see you again?” she wanted to know.
“Unlikely,” he admitted, “I don’t really get out much. Thanks, though, I had a good time.”  He jumped up, pulling his shirt off the doorknob and shrugging into it.

“Well, okay,” said the girl, “Maybe I could come to your hotel.”

John buttoned his shirt and slung his jacket over his shoulder. His tie hung from the pocket like a tail. “Sorry, we’re leaving New York in a couple of hours.” Noting her disappointment, he sighed and tossed her the tie. “Thanks again,” he called, leaving the room. The girl seemed appeased, and he was eager to be away from the scene of the crime. He really hated hurting them, but the girls couldn’t possibly expect him to develop relationships with all of them. They all knew he had a wife and son back home in England, after all.

By the time Brian had herded them all back into the car, John was eager to know what was going to happen next. “Not much, I’m afraid,” Brian replied, “We go back to the hotel and get ready to fly out of here tonight. On the bright side, John, we’ve three hours before we need to be at the airport; looks like you can have that nap after all.”

John sighed. Nothing really out of the ordinary ever seemed to happen any more; it was all the same. Oh, well, a nap would be nice, he thought.

***

Back in his room, John stretched out on the bed and watched the TV; he loved American television. There always seemed to be something on, if not good, then at least watchable.  He thought that he would fall asleep, but it just wasn’t happening. After half an hour, he got up and went out into the lounge. No one was in sight; apparently the others were napping, as well.

Feeling restless, John grabbed his jacket and went out into the hall. “Might as well do a bit o’ sightseein’,” he muttered. He had a couple of hours, and there was a museum nearby. Maybe he would go there.

He made it as far as the lobby without running into any of the Beatles entourage, but there he ran into Ringo, who was leaning on the front desk, talking with one of the hotel’s maids. “My daughter just loves you,” the woman was saying, “Would you give me an autograph for her?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied, taking her pen and writing on the back of a “Do Not Disturb” sign. “And how do you feel about me?” he asked, handing the sign back to her. The woman blushed and giggled, although she had to be at least forty. Still smiling, she caught sight of John. “Ooh, there’s another one,” she said excitedly. “Excuse me, sir, but can I have an autograph for my daugher?” she called.

Ringo turned and looked at John. “Goin’ somewhere?” he asked in a bland voice.
John took the sign and wrote “Clive Jones” on it, handing it back to the woman, who looked at it and said, “Thank you so much, Mr. Jones. Or can I call you ‘Clive?’” John smiled dutifully and turned his attention to Ringo as the woman hurried away in search of more Beatles.

“I thought I’d go take a look at that museum down the street,” John said, and Ringo nodded slowly.

“And how does Brian feel about that?” he asked, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth.

“What Eppy doesn’t know won’t bother him,” replied John. “Wanna come?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Ringo answered.

“Well, then, let’s get outta here before anyone else sees us,” John told him, turning again towards the door.

“Too late,” said a voice that sounded suspiciously like George’s.

“We’re in,” added Paul, and the two of them stood up from the high-backed chairs they’d been occupying. From the desk, the chairs had appeared to be empty.

“Oh, just jolly,” groaned John, “FourBeatles won’t stick out on the streets at all. Do I have a choice?”

“Nope,” said George cheerfully, “Let’s go. I’m sick of this place.”

***

Outside, Paul took a hat out of his pocket and jammed it down tight, covering his hair and most of his eyes.  George shrugged and pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears, hiding his face pretty well. John sighed and did the same, commenting that this didn’t look a bit suspicious. Ringo followed suit, and the four were off.

They got about ten feet before being noticed. A piercing scream made them practically leap out of their skins, and they took off running. The screaming increased and multiplied as girls who had been hanging around the hotel joined in the chase.

“They love us!” cried Paul.

“They’ll love us until we’re--naked--and--hairless,” panted John, “If we--stop.”

The four turned a corner and Ringo spotted an alley and shouted, “Down here!” as he disappeared into it. The other three followed and they pulled back into the shadows and watched the herd of girls go thundering past.

“This’ll keep ‘em fooled for about five minutes,” John told them, “We’d best get back to the hotel before they realize what happened and come back.” “Hang on, look at this,” said George, pointing to a pile of boxes next to a door in the alley. The boxes were full of old clothes. Ringo picked up a shirt and examined it critically. It was a bilious green thing with red pinstripes.

“Ugh, this is awful,” he said, “Just perfect.” He removed his jacket and slipped his arms into the sleeves of the hideous shirt, then rummaged in the box and came up with a woolen ski hat, which he also put on. He turned towards his friends.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“Like a nightmare come to life,” replied John, “In other words, great. Let’s see what else is in there, and hurry!”

***

A few minutes later, four nondescript hoboes emerged from the alley, each with a ragged hat crammed onto his head. The sound of screaming was growing louder again.

“They’re comin’ back, better split up, like,” said John, leaning against the door of a tobacco shop.

George sat on the curb beside a mailbox, and  Paul  trotted a few yards away and sat on the front steps of an old brownstone. Ringo ducked into the tobacco shop.

The girls ran by again, heading back towards the hotel, ignoring the shabbily dressed men lounging along the sidewalk.

“That’s the last of ‘em,” declared  Paul, coming back to rejoin the others, “Where’d Ringo go?”

John cocked his thumb towrds the shop door. “He went in there,” he replied, “Guess he fancied a smoke.”

“Not a bad idea,” said George. “Anybody got one?”

“Yeah, hang on,” muttered Paul, “I’ve got some here somewhere....” he patted his pockets methodically, finally coming up with a rumpled pack of Larks. He extracted one and handed it to George.

“Gimmee,” said John, waggling the fingers of an outstretched hand at Paul.

“Yeah, here ya go, John.” he answered, handing him one as well.

John took out a book of matches and lit his cigarette, looking delighted.  He took a deep drag and blew out smoke, eyes closed, head back. “Ah, that’s nice,” he said gently, inhaling again.

“I need a match,” Paul told him.

“Yer face an’ my arse,” John replied smoothly. He opened his matchbook and, finding it empty, offered his cigarette for Paul to light his off. George lit his off Paul’s, as he didn’t have a match either.

John opened the shop door and called inside, “Hey, Ring, get us some more smokes, and some matches, willya?” There was no answer, and he peered curiously inside.

The shop was deserted; there wasn’t a soul in sight. There were cobwebs festooning the room, and a musty smell rushed out through the open door. John’s stomach fluttered a bit, and he yelled louder. “We’re leavin’, c’mon out!”

Paul and George crowded into the doorway beside John, peeking into the shop. “I don’t like the look of this place,” announced John. “Why don’t you go in an’ get him, Paul, and me’n’George’ll wait out here?”Paul looked coldly at him.

“Why don’t YOU go,” he countered, “And George and I will wait.”

“Fuck it,” John said at last, “We’ll all go. Come ‘ead.”

***

The shop was even creepier inside, and John, for one, was anxious to be on his way.  There were cartons of cigarettes scattered all over the floor, and John picked one up, opened it, and stuffed his pockets with them, grabbing a couple handfuls of matches for good measure. George frowned at him and put some money on the counter, after which he began to call for Ringo. John shrugged, picked up the money, and added that to his haul.

He was looking around for the cash register when Paul called out, “Hey, lads, c’mere!” George and John hurried over to where Paul was standing. There was a door at the rear of the shop, and footprints in the dust led straight to it. “I think he went this way,” said Paul, “Let’s see where it leads.”

“Yeright,” snorted John. “Go on, if yer wanna. I’m headin’ back to the hotel. I’ve had enough of this place, and it’s too late to see much of the museum now.”

“But what about Ringo?” asked George, torn between going back and pressing on.

“He’s a grown man, isn’t he? He’ll find his way back,” said John. “Are ye comin’ or not, ‘cos I’m leavin’.”

George hesitated, then turned to ask Paul. John was on his way towards the street door.

“Paul? Where’d ya get to, don’t fool about like this,” warned George, “Or I’ll just leave with--”he stopped, staring at the floor. Paul’s footprints ended at the door as well.  With a resigned sigh, George opened the door.

John paused in the open doorway at the opposite end of the shop. ”George? Are ye comin’?” he called, turning back. There was no one to be seen. The door at the other end of the room now stood ajar, and there was light coming from beyond it. Motes of dust floated in the light, and John let the door to the street close and trudged back into the shop. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, crossing the room. His stomach was twisting inside of him, and he knew, he just knew, that nothing good was on the other side of that door. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, swung the door fully open, and stepped forward.

***

John opened his eyes and blinked. He thought for a moment that he must be dreaming. He was in a sunny meadow.He turned to go back into the shop, but the door was not behind him; in fact, it seemed to have completely disappeared.  “Oh, shit,” he whispered. His knees were shaking, and his throat felt very dry indeed. He looked around for signs of his friends,but they were nowhere to be seen.

“Paul!” he yelled, as loudly as he could, “George! Ringo! Where the fuck are you?” His pulse pounded in his ears, and he suddenly felt very small. “Where the fuck am I?”

***

It seemed much warmer here than it had been in New York. John was quite sure that he was no longer anywhere near New York City. He shrugged out of his ugly, borrowed shirt and started to drop it on the ground, then decided to keep it. He tied the arms around his waist and, with a last look around in case he’d missed the door or it had suddenly reappeared, he struck out in the direction he happened to be facing, desperately hoping that his mates had gone the same way.

It seemed to John that he had been walking for hours by the time he reached the edge of the meadow. He heard water rushing somewhere in front of him and to the right, so he headed in the direction of the sound. He was unbelievably thirsty.

Reaching a rapidly tumbling brook, John threw himself to the ground on his stomach beside it and put his face directly into the water, drinking deeply. When his thirst had finally been slaked, he raised his head and stared, chin dripping, into the eyes of a startled deer. The deer turned and bounded away, and John watched it disappear into the trees, his heart hammering wildly.

He had walked so long, and he was so tired...looking miserable and feeling very sorry for himself, John crept into a small copse and curled up on the soft, fragrant grass to lie down and close his eyes for just a moment...

***

When he awakened, John was shivering. It was dark, and all sorts of mysterious rustling sounds were going on all around him. He tried not to think about what might be making the sounds, and he fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He retrieved `a book of matches from another pocket and lit his cigarette with shaking hands. He drew deeply on it, and the glow comforted him a little. He wondered if there was anything around that he could use to build a fire. He was still considering this when a stick cracked sharply a short distance away. John hastened to crush out his cigarette, afraid that its glowing tip would give him away. Something big was moving towards him, and John hoped with all his heart that it was nothing more dangerous than a deer. He tried not to breathe too hard; whatever it was, it was getting closer.

John felt around in the wet grass surrounding him, and his hand closed around a short, stout stick. He tried to make himself as small as possible, drawing his knees up into his chin, his eyes wide, staring into the impenetrable darkness.

A light flashed and moved about ten yards away from him, and to his amazement, Ringo’s face was illuminated as he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

John scrambled to his feet. “Ring!” he shouted, and his friend jumped so that he dropped his cigarette, which hit the ground in a small shower of sparks in the darkness. “John? Is that you?” “Yeah! Where’re the others? Are ye all together? Bloody hell, am I glad to see you--even though I can’t actually see you--are ye all in barley?”  All of this came out in a rush as John clambered from his hiding place, still clutching his crude weapon. He dropped the stick and fetched a book of matches from his pocket, striking one to light the way somewhat. Ringo was standing a few feet in front of him, and John dropped the match and threw his arms around the stunned drummer.

“Everybody’s all right, John. We’ve only been tryin’ to get a fire goin’, is all. I was lookin’ for a bit o’ wood. Only...do ya know where we are?”

“Not a clue,” John confessed, “But I’ll feel a whole lot better once we are all together again. Which way?”

Ringo lit another match and peered about. ”That way,” he said at last, pointing off to the left. “There’s a clearing there, and a pond. No food, but plenty of water. I heard some frogs, but I don’t know as I’m quite that hungry yet.”

“For once, eating is the last thing on my mind,” John replied. “Let’s go find the other lads.”

Ringo stooped to gather up his load of sticks again; he had laid them down to light his cigarette. Then the pair started in the direction Ringo had indicated, stepping gingerly so as not to trip over anything in the dark.

Once they were out of the woods, the moonlight grew strong. John could make out the shapes of his friends beside a small, shimmering body of water. He broke into a run, and Paul and George looked up. “I thought you went back to the hotel,” said George, “What’re ya doin’ here?”

“I came to find the rest o’ yer lot,” replied John. “Nice to see yer so bloody grateful an’ all.” He got out another cigarette and lit up.

“Well?” prompted Paul, “Any for the rest of us, then, selfish?”

“Oh, aye, here yer go,” said John, tossing a pack into Paul’s eager hands, “Dinner is served.”

The four of them smoked in silence for a few moments.

“This is really a foul habit, yer know,” said John presently. “It’s the reason we’re in this mess in the first place. Stupid bloody tobacconist’s shop.”

“Yeah, well, we’re here, and now we have to reckon out how in bloody hell we’re gonna get back to the real world,” Paul replied.

“What?” asked Ringo. “Are ye tellin’ me that we’re not in the real world anymore, then?” His mournful eyes saddened yet more, a feat that John would have reckoned to be impossible had he not seen it himself.

“You might be right about that, Paulie,” said George in a tight voice. The others turned to face him,and George pointed to the horizon behind the other three.

John turned, along with Paul and Ringo, and what he saw made his eyes grow wide and his heart pound. Coming up from behind a jagged mountain ridge was a second moon, in quarter phase, as red and ominous as a badly infected wound. A soft moan of disbelief escaped John as he looked straight up at the benign, white full moon.

That’s just wrong, that can’t be,” he finally managed to croak. He looked at his three companions, and every one of them was staring, pale and round-eyed, at the second moon.

“S’there, though,” said George, evenly, “There’s no denyin’ that.”

“I must be dreamin’,” whispered John. Someone pinched him, and he winced. “No, you’re not,” Paul said. “We’re awake. I don’t know where in bloody hell we are, but we’re definitely awake.”

***

George managed to get a fire going, and the four men sat huddled close to its meager warmth, each one wrestling with the apparent fact that they were on another planet.

“How the fuck are we gonna get home, lads?” asked John, sounding even more miserable than he looked.

“The same way we got here, I reckon,” Paul offered. “I don’t know how else we would.”

“Yeah, great idea, except the bleedin’ door disappeared!” John spat. “Besides, this just can’t be real. Someone must be havin’ us on.”

“Nobody could do all this,” Ringo moaned. “They just couldn’t. It’s not fuckin’ possible.”

“He’s right, you know,” agreed George. “This couldn’t be set up. It’s real, all right. But we got here, so there must be a way to get back. It’s only logical.”

“Logical! What the bloody fuck is logical about any of this?” John cried. “Did you happen to notice, Mr. Harrison, that we seem to be on another fuckin’ planet? How the bloody hell is that logical? Logic don’t enter into this situation.” He trailed off, feeling more frightened than he ever had felt before.

George sighed and lay down beside the fire.  “Well, we’d better get some sleep,” he said, “We’ve gotta figure out how to get home tomorrow.”

John lay back and looked again at the ominous, red moon. He closed his eyes tight to shut out the sight of it. “Eppie’s gotta be havin’ kittens right about now,” he muttered. And, incredibly, he slept.

***

John awoke to the sound of splashing water. He sat up slowly and looked towards the little pond, in which Ringo stood, poised to thrust a stick into the water. He stabbed down and came up with a violently wriggling fish, which he tossed up onto the bank beside three others.

George was poking the fire back to life, and Paul sat beside him, sleepily rubbing his eyes. John looked towards the mountains again. “I feel better now that I can’t see that bloody second moon,” he remarked.

Ringo was on the shore now, pulling his jeans back on. He collected his fish and brought them over to divide amongst his friends. “I got one for each of us,” he said proudly. “It wasn’t so hard.”

“Good show, Ritchie,” said Paul, “I’m so hungry I could eat, well, this.” He indicated the fish, which was by now no longer jumping about.

“What do we cut them open with?” asked George, looking doubtfully at his own breakfast, which was still struggling feebly.

Ringo produced a small pocketknife. “Be prepared,” he declared. “That’s what I always say.” He grabbed his own fish, hesitated briefly, then gutted it more or less efficiently. He threaded it onto his stick and passed the knife to John, who cut his own fish open, pulling a face as he removed the entrails.

“Disgustin’,” he muttered, but he grabbed a stick and set about cooking his own breakfast.

Once they had all eaten, John was in a better mood. “That wasn’t half bad, Ring,” he said, clapping the drummer on the back. “I never knew ye had it in yer.” He hauled himself to his feet, dusted off his trousers, and squinted against the sun, which hung over the mountains just now. “We’d better get a move on, lads,” he added, “I do believe we missed the plane, and we’re not likely to make tonight’s show, but we can’t have Eppie worryin’ hisself to death.”

***

Since nobody had any better ideas, the little group struck out in the direction of the mountains. Each man had drunk as much water as he could, since they had no means of carrying more. The mountains loomed larger as they approached them, and at last they stood at the foot of the range, which towered above them to an almost unbelievable height. To their delight, there was a small waterfall, and they all drank thirstily while they could, swallowing as much as they could hold.

John looked around and spoke to them. “Now, the question is, do we go over, or do we go around?”

“Around,” said Paul, looking doubtfully at the steep, gravelly hillside.

“Fine with me,” George agreed.

“I vote for around,” added Ringo.

“Around it is, then,” said John, decisively, and off they went.

***

The sun was very high in the sky when the boys sat down to take a break. It seemed as though they had made the right decision; the steep, gravelly mountainside was as severe as it had first appeared, no matter how far around they walked.

John, Paul, and George were lounging about beside a tiny waterfall, smoking. Ringo was feeling restless and wandered off a short distance. “Hey!” he called, suddenly, “Come take a look at what I found!”

“Is it more fish?” asked John, hopefully. His stomach was beginning to growl despite being filled with water.

“No; c’mere and take a look!”

With a collective groan, the others struggled to their feet and headed in
Ringo’s direction. When they reached him, the drummer was fairly dancing with excitement. He pointed to an outcropping. “In here,” he said excitedly. “It’s a cave! Maybe it goes all the way through to the other side!”

“Yeright,” said John, a cynical smirk on his handsome face. “I’m goin’ in there.”

“It probably doesn’t go all the way through, Ritchie,” said Paul. His soft, brown eyes seemed curious and worried at the same time. “It probably goes down underground, and I’ll bet it’s full of bats and such, like.”

“Yeah,” John agreed. “Bats an’ snakes, an’ spiders.” He shook his head. “Not for me, boyo.”

George suddenly said, “We really should go in there, you know.”

“What?” John cried. “Why the bloody hell would we want to do that?”

“Because,” George replied, his voice shaking, “I think it’d be a lot safer in there with that coming.” He pointed towards the direction they had come from, and they all turned to look.

“Bloody hell!” screamed John, “Let’s get the fuck in there with the bats an’ all!”

They all scrambled into the narrow opening; it was better than staying outside with a tornado barreling down on them.

The four clustered near the opening and watched as the storm approached. “I guess you saved us, Ritch,” said George, swallowing hard. He hated the idea of never making it home to his family, and just now he felt that he had narrowly escaped death.

“We never would’ve ended up here in the first place if it hadn’t been for him,” John said moodily. “Him and that stupid bloody door in that stupid fuckin’ tobacconist’s shop.”

Ringo looked injured; he hadn’t meant any harm.

“Yeah, well, don’t forget, John,” Paul reminded him, “You were the one who wanted to leave the hotel in the first place.”

“Nobody twisted yer bleedin’ arm to get yer to come with,” John argued. “If I’d gone by meself, I would’ve been back in plenty of time, and we would all be in Chicago, or wherever the hell we were supposed to be right now.”

George interjected calmly, “Nobody is to blame. Everything happens for a reason.”

“I’d like to know the fuckin’ reason for this whole fiasco,” John complained. “If there is one, I sure as hell can’t make out what it could possibly be.”

A roaring sound filled the small cavern, and the boys moved back deeper into the crevice. There was a narrow passageway, and Ringo peered curiously inside.

“Forget it,” John said in a firm voice. “I’m waitin’ right here for the storm to pass, and then I’m outta here.”

He was still speaking when there was a horrible crashing noise. They all spun towards the entrance, but it seemed to be gone.  With a strangled cry, John leaped forward to where the opening had been. He could see a bit of light around the edges, but an enormous boulder had fallen against the mouth of the cave. With a frightened moan, he pushed against it with his shoulder, but of course it wouldn’t budge, and there was no room for more than one man to stand there at the same time. John slid to the floor and

sat there. If it hadn’t been so dark, the others would have been able to see the tears of frustration in his eyes.

The sound of the storm was now lessening, whether because it was passing or on account of the massive rock now blocking the cave’s entrance, John did not know. All he did know right now was that things looked very dark in more ways than one.

***

Nobody said anything for a long moment, then Paul broke the silence. “I wonder how far that passage goes,” he said quietly. “I think maybe it’s time we found out. Unless anyone else has another idea, that is.”

“Doesn’t really seem as if we’ve got a choice,” replied George. “This way is apparently out of the question.”

John sighed, hauling himself to his feet. He could see Ringo in the dim light, standing with his head down, looking absolutely miserable. He placed an arm companionably around the drummer’s shoulders and gave them a small squeeze. “C’mon, then,” he said gruffly, releasing his friend, “Let’s see where this thing goes.”

***

They hadn’t gotten far before it was pitch dark, the tiny amount of light in the main cavern was behind them now. As they felt their way along in the dark, John occasionally lit a match to see what was ahead, which for the longest time was exactly nothing but more passageway.

“At least there don’t seem to be any creatures in here,” whispered Paul.

“I’ve been wondering about that,” Ringo replied. “That seems dead weird, to me. I mean, according to everything I’ve read on the subject, there should be things living in a place like this.”

“You read a lot of books about caves, then, Ring?” asked John in a sarcastic tone. He was pretty scared, and his memory of how he had happened to get stuck here had returned in full force. “Mebbe I’m the wrong man to be in front, here. Mebbe I should let our exalted cave expert lead.”

“Quiet, John,” said George, sharply. Taken aback, John obeyed. It was not like George to speak to him like that, and that could only mean that he had something important to say.

“What did you read about caves, Ritchie?” asked George. “Do you have any ideas about what’s likely to be up ahead?”  Ringo, still hurt by John’s remarks after his apparent forgiveness earlier, didn’t say anything right away.

“C’mon, Ring,” Paul added, “Anything you could tell us would be more than the rest of us know about all this.”

“Well,” Ringo began, “There are four kinds of creatures found in caves. You’ve got your troglobites--they stay in the cave all the time, and they’re like, blind crickets, eyeless fish, and cave beetles.” John snorted and controlled his urge to make a comment. Ringo ignored him and continued, “You have your troglophiles--they stay if there’s enough food. That’s like, spiders, snakes, and a lot of bugs. Trogloxenes are next; that’s stuff like bats and bears--”

“Bears, huh,” said Paul. He had not even thought of bears, and he was feeling frightened enough already.

“Yeah, but a bear would be near the main entrance, like where we came in. Not to worry,” replied Ringo. “The thing is, there should be a lot of bugs in an area like this, cuz we’re in a lava tube. You can tell by the cracks in the wall; they’re contraction cracks, from thawing and freezing. And there’s a pile of rocks beside me.”

“What does that mean?” George prompted.

“It means there’s an opening somewhere above us,” said Ringo. “A pile of rocks like this is called a ‘breakdown’, and--”

“An openin’?” shouted John. His voice sounded like a thunderclap in the narrow passageway. “There’s a fuckin’ openin’ above us, and yer givin’ us a bleedin’ lecture on caves?”

“John, please, not now,” pleaded George. Turning his attention back to Ringo, he went on, “How do we get to the opening?”

“There’s only one way,” Ringo answered. “We climb up the rockpile.”

“That sounds pretty dangerous,” said Paul, “And I don’t see any light up there. How d’ya know there’s really a hole?”

“If these rocks are here, there’s gotta be a hole up there,” said Ringo, sounding more confident than he felt--after all, the bloke who wrote the book could have been wrong, he thought, but he shook off the thought and asked John for a match instead. John gave him a book, and Ringo struck one. There was, indeed, a pile of rocks beside him, but they didn’t look very safe to climb; a random tumble of boulders reached from the floor of the passageway to as far as they could see above them.

“You go first, Ring,” suggested John, “Yer the lightest.” Besides, he thought, this is all your bloody fault in the first place, Mr. Cave Professor. He kept his mouth shut though; he was really too scared to argue.

Taking a deep breath, Ringo began to climb. The rockpile seemed solid enough; there were a couple of tense moments when a boulder shifted slightly under the drummer’s weight, but once he had gone up a short distance, he called back over his shoulder, “I think it’s okay; c’mon up--I can see some light up here!”

Feeling much relieved, the others began to make their way up the pile of boulders, leaving the dank passageway behind. John could now see the light, having climbed twenty yards or so. It was off at a slight angle, which was why it hadn’t been visible from below. He could make Ringo out now, and then it got dark again.

“What’s happenin’?” cried John, “I don’t see the light, now!” He scrambled up higher, and Paul cried out in pain.

“John, ya stepped on me hand, ya filthy great lummox! Have a care!” he shouted.  The light was back, and brighter, now. John ignored Paul and continued to climb.

“I’m out!” cried Ringo, and his head appeared in a circle of blue sky.

***

Once the last Beatle emerged from the opening, the four sprawled upon the ground, more relieved than they had ever been in their lives.

“Thank God,” murmured George, “I think I hear people.” He sprang to his feet and looked about. They were on a lush, grassy hillside, and,at the foot of the hill,just emerging from a wooded area, he saw two young lads walking together, chattering brightly, a large sheepdog frisking ahead of them. The others were on their feet now, and all four of them began to run down the hill, calling out as they went.

The boys stopped dead in their tracks and gaped at the odd-looking strangers who were barreling towards them. With a frightened yelp, the dog leaped to a place of safety behind the boys, who bravely stood their ground. Once the four men were standing in front of the boys, trying to get their breath, one of the lads spoke.

“Say,” he said in a distinctive American accent, “Aren’t you guys The Beatles?”

Stunned, they just nodded.

“They’ve been looking all over for you,” said the biggest boy. “My sister’s been cryin’ since she heard the news on TV that you guys were missing.”

“Wh-where are we?” John asked, his voice trembling.

“Central Park,” the boy replied, with a puzzled frown, “Where’d ya think—on the moon? Jeesh, you guys aren’t too bright, are ya. C’mon, we passed a cop a ways back. He’ll get ya to where you belong.”

The four men followed the boy, who was shaking his head at their apparent stupidity.

***

“So,” whispered John, “What do we say when they ask where we’ve been? I kinda doubt that they’re gonna believe the truth.”

“Well,” replied Ringo with a smile, “I think we should just tell ‘em we stepped into a shop for some ciggies.”

***

Later that night on a plane to their next engagement, Brian was lecturing his precious charges.

“I just don’t know,” he said, in a very tired voice. “Sometimes I think you boys have a pact against me. Are you trying to give me a stroke? You have responsibilities, you know, not only to me and our partnership, but to the fans. You can’t just decide to go off on your own like that. It’s just not right. I...” he paused, looking at the four of them. They were all watching him with soulful, innocent faces, and Brian suppressed the urge to smile.

“I was really worried,” he said at last. “Please, if you don’t want to tell me what you all were up to, that’s perfectly all right, but just please don’t simply vanish again.” He was so grateful to have them all back again, he just couldn’t be really angry with them. They looked like chastened children.

“We won’t, Brian,” said George, “Sorry.”

“Yeah, we didn’t mean anything,” added Paul, “We’ll stick to the schedule for the rest of the tour, we promise.”

Ringo nodded, and Brian looked at John.

“Well?” Brian prompted.

“Sorry, Eppie,” replied John, yawning. “We’ll behave. But I really need some sleep just now, it’s been a bloody tryin’ day.” 

Brian sighed. “Yes, for me, as well.” he agreed. “Wherever you all were, you have no idea the hell you’ve put me through.”

John cracked an eye open and clucked sympathetically. “There now,” he said gently, “Everybody’s in barley, and there’s no need to think about it any more. Why don’t you just get some sleep yerself, Brian. We’re hundreds of feet above the ground. We can’t get into any trouble here.”

“Ordinarily, I’d agree,” replied Brian, “But with you lot, I can never really seem to relax. You seem to get into trouble no matter where we are. Honestly, sometimes I just don’t know--” and he stopped and smiled; there was nobody listening to him any more. The Beatles were all asleep, and safe out of trouble...for the moment.

Tell Angel Godiva what you thought of her story!