The venerable old hotel had certainly played host to some strange and shocking events during the course of its long, distinguished existence. A few scandalous romances had begun (or ended) within its rooms, a nasty murder had horrified the public back in the Fifties, and then there had been that truly bizarre incident with the tomato sandwich, the dwarf goat, and the lathe.

None of these concern our current story, however. But once this particular day was finally over, the hotel would have acquired a distinctly sinister reputation, as well as a truly horrific cleaning bill. So, for the sake of narrative convention if nothing else, let us start at the beginning.

It all began one fine morning, in one unremarkable room.

The room was occupied by one person, or perhaps two. A young man, partially illuminated by thin slats of morning light that squeezed through the window blinds, lay face-down on one of the two beds. The fact that he was still fully-clothed...and his over-all disheveled condition...suggested he'd only managed to stagger as far as the bed before collapsing into oblivion the night before. As a matter of fact, that was pretty much what had happened, give or take a few unpleasant details which shall not be explored here.

The second bed was occupied by an asymmetrical mound of blankets. The general shape of the mound, along with its occasional fitful movements and painful mutters of "Ooooobloodlyhellmehead," suggested there was a human being in there somewhere. Either that or the bedclothes had managed to attain the power of speech, as well as an appalling hangover.

The sprawled figure upon the first bed wasn't much more eloquent. He gave an incoherent groan, rubbing his face as best he could without lifting it from the bedspread. Finally Ringo raised his head, blinked, rubbed his face some more, then mumbled, "What time is it?"

"Mmmphurmble," the mound replied. Perhaps its vocabulary was still rather limited.

A loud series of knocks came from the door that joined the room to its neighbor. The occupants flinched violently at the sound. Rather, the one visible occupant flinched violently. The bedclothes rearranged themselves into a different shape, which most likely indicated displeasure.

Ringo forced himself to stand, groaned and rubbed the back of his neck, then half-stumbled to the door. He opened it, revealing a figure in an untucked white shirt and dark pants, standing with his hand raised as if about to knock again.

Ringo said, deadpan, "We don't want any," then began to shut the door. George checked this action with one hand, then pushed the door all the way open and walked through. Yawning, he moved to the (possibly) occupied bed and sat down, earning another groan from the long-suffering heap. George lit a cigarette as Ringo groggily asked, "Where's Paul, then?"

"In there." George indicated the other room, then took a long drag before continuing. "Gettin' re-acquainted with last night's supper."

"Oh." Ringo didn't sound all that surprised.

George nodded. "Told him not to eat whatever-it-was." He poked the rumpled heap next to him, and was rewarded with a few perfunctory movements.

Paul chose that moment to enter. He managed to look reasonably well put-together, despite his recent study of the intimate workings of the human digestive system. There was a certain "I NEVER want to do THAT again" quality to his expression, however. "Morning all," he mumbled, heading for a small table by the door and pouring himself a drink.

Once again, speech came from the lump of blankets. "Yes, it is morning. So good of you to point that out, mate." Finally, with what seemed a Herculean effort, John emerged from his cocoon of fabric. Apparently he'd managed to undress himself the prior evening, as he wore only his undershorts, providing a picture many a female fan would've killed to obtain. He blinked at the clock on the nightstand, then groaned and re-buried himself in the blankets.

If the other three Beatles had simply returned to their own beds and done the exact same thing, a great deal of trouble might have been averted. But these things are always obvious in hindsight, aren't they?

Several brisk knocks came from the main door.

Three Beatles looked at it (John didn't make the effort). They looked at each other, then at the door again. Finally, Ringo shrugged, walked over, and opened it.

There was no one there. Ringo looked up and down the hall, then glanced down. A small package sat on the richly carpeted floor. It was about the size and shape of an upright shoebox, and was festively wrapped in bright red paper with a shiny yellow ribbon.

"It's not someone's birthday, is it?" George wondered, creasing his brow as he realized he wasn't sure what day it was. (He was a bit hazy on the week and month, too, though he was at least moderately certain of the year.)

Paul shrugged. "Not that I know of. Has it got a card with it?"

Ringo stooped to check. He held up a crinkled sheet of white paper, upon which was scrawled, in large black letters, 'From A FAN to THE BEETLES!!!!' He shrugged. Then, sounding slightly worried, he asked, "You think it's all right, then? Should I bring it in?"

"Oh, please do," observed a sardonic, yet muffled, voice. "If it's poison, I'll take it."

Cautiously, Ringo picked up the mysterious package and brought it inside, closing the door. "Open it, then," George encouraged. "Don't keep us all in suspense."

The drummer pulled free the ribbon and tore away the paper, revealing a featureless cardboard box. Opening that, he looked inside and said, "Oh!"

"What?" Paul and George asked in reasonable unison. John rolled to face the scene, blinking and squinting as he tried to focus.

Ringo pulled the object free from its box, turning to face them. "It's a robot, I think," he said, sounding puzzled. "A toy robot."

He set it down on the carpet, facing them. It was indeed a robot, boxy and primitive, made of dull black metal, with a row of silver rivets along the upper edge of its square chest. The head was also square, with opaque white circles for eyes and a silver grille for a mouth. This bore a disconcerting resemblance to a crazed grin. The blocky arms, with blunt pinchers for hands, were extended before it in the manner of a sleepwalker, or a recently re-animated mummy. The stiff legs were rectangular box shapes, with flatter boxes for the feet.

A small child might have found it delightful, or possibly terrifying. But what the Beatles were supposed to do with it, none of them had any idea.

"Does it work, then?" George asked, sounding amused as he leaned over to stub his cigarette out in an ashtray.

Ringo had knelt down to examine the thing. "There's buttons back here." He pushed one, then startled as the thing abruptly jerked to life. The round white eyes lit up, and it began to walk clumsily forward, making a loud grinding sound.

George applauded without much enthusiasm. "Bravo." Paul looked dubious, still clutching his drink as if it hoping it had magical healing properties. John didn't react one way or the other.

Ringo looked back in the box. "Hang on, there's something else." He withdrew a folded slip of paper as the robot continued its wobbly progress, clanking and whirring its way along the floor.

Ringo unfolded the instructions. They looked to have been poorly translated from some other language, possibly Venusian:

{SUPER AMAZING LIFE FORM ROBOT

Welcome!!! Pleased are you to be having this prototype LIFE FORM RROBOT. Many pleasent houres of happyness to be enjoying with ROBOT!! Operations simpel to doing. Share with freinds!! Enough for all not waiting!!! Not responsibles for action on the parts of user.

WARNING DO NOT DAMAGE MULTIPLICITY DANGER!!!!}

He passed around the booklet to the others. Paul and George each glanced at it, made a quizzical face, then passed it along. When it got to John, he wadded it up, threw it at Ringo, and ducked back under his pillow. Ringo absently stuffed the instructions in a pocket.

Meanwhile, the robot had walked itself into a wall. It seemed undeterred by this, however, and continued to stride in place, waving its stubby arms up and down in a rhythmic manner. The loud grinding noise was becoming annoying.

"Shut it off, will you?" Paul complained. The toy's novelty would have worn off quickly even if his stomach hadn't felt like an experiment in unethical chemical warfare.

"Mrrrgh," John added from under the pillow. This was probably meant as an agreement.

Sighing, Ringo gripped the thing by the top of the head and lifted it up. Undaunted, it continued to march in the air. Its noisy grinding became even louder as he poked around its back. "Well," he said to himself, "if this button starts it, then maybe this one will..."

Unfortunately, John's patience with the robot, the noise, and the universe in general had finally run out. He sat up, grabbed his pillow, and hurled it at Ringo just as he pressed the second button. The pillow didn't do the drummer any damage, but it startled him enough to make him drop the robot.

It seemed to take an unusually long time to fall.

It hit the floor feet-first, tottered, stayed upright.

The round eyes flashed brighter, illuminating the deranged smile with an eerie glow. It gave a loud CLANG, then a CLANK, then a CLONG. The head tilted slightly as if pondering something, there was a loud WHIRR-RRR-RRR...

...and a small metallic box plopped out of its back.

George snorted at the sight. "Hey, Ring', your robot's just shat on the carpet!"

Ringo looked dubious. "It's not my robot," he began. However, his voice trailed off as all of them...even the now-seated-upright John...noticed that the box was moving.

It rocked back and forth on the carpet, as the robot that had spawned it lurched into a walk once again. Small panels on the cube's side opened up, and tiny metal rods emerged. As the foursome watched in not-quite-horrified fascination, the thing continued to shift and change before their eyes. It actually seemed to be getting bigger, unfolding itself like a bizarre metallic origami.

"What in...?" Paul began, then glanced at his drink and quickly set it aside, as if suspecting this was an chemically-induced hallucination.

"What's it doing?" George asked. The thing looked like a mechanical stick figure now, and showed no signs of stopping. Ringo hastily stepped away from it, as if fearing it might explode, or lunge for his throat, or something even worse--

--several loud knocks made them all jump and utter various unkind words. "Hello?" asked a snitty male voice. "Are you awake? It is after eight-a-m, you know."

"Aw, shit," George muttered. "It's wots'name, the stupid git in charge..."

"Hide the bloody things!" John hissed. The offending objects were quickly shoved under the nearest bed. The dust ruffle hid them from view. Unfortunately, it did nothing to conceal the noise, a fact which Ringo realized approximately one second after he opened the door.

Outside stood the hotel manager, a sniffy, officious man with a sniffy, officious moustache. His receding hair was slicked back from his forehead like an ill-advised attempt to varnish a coconut. Even though he was shorter than the any of the four men he was addressing, he still managed to look down his nose at all them. Each member of the Beatles had the simultaneous urge to punch his teeth through the back of his head. None of them acted on this impulse, though it might have been amusing if they had.

The manager peered past Ringo, sliding his lidded gaze around the room as if expecting to see blatant drug paraphernalia and/or naked women strewn about the place. He seemed disappointed at finding neither, and took no notice of Paul's frown, George's glare, and John's near-lethal sneer. He did scowl at a certain underlying sound, but didn't remark on it immediately.

The manager turned back to Ringo, and managed to look at him without really looking at him. "And are you almost ready for the tour?" he sniffed. (He didn't speak, really, he sniffed.)

"Tour? What tour?" the Beatles said in something resembling unison.

The man managed to look even further down his nose, if that was possible. "Surely you haven't forgotten that you are to take a tour of our fine establishment?" He continued: "There are reporters here for it, you know." He said the word "reporters" in a tone that implied he really meant "unusually disgusting cockroaches." Then he frowned again. "What is that noise?"

They had to raise their voices to be heard above the noise. "What noise?" John sat up and slid his legs over the side of the bed to hide a tell-tale fluttering of the dust ruffle.

Paul suggested, "Er, perhaps it's the...ah...plumbing?"

"The plumbing?" The manager looked at Paul, giving John the opportunity to kick back an offending metal appendage that was groping its way into view. At this, the snooty man darted a suspicious glare at John, who instantly affected a purely angelic grin.

Clearly convinced he was dealing with a gang of lunatics, the manager sniffed, "The tour begins at precisely eight-forty-five-a-m. You'd do well to be on time, hmm? This is a well-respected establishment, you know." What that had to do with anything, he didn't clarify; only gave them one last disapproving once-over, then turned and sniffed his way down the hall and out of sight.

"Er...thank you," Ringo offered for no real reason, closing the door. Paul exhaled loudly as George shook his head and said, "Right, Paul, I'm sure it's only the plumbing."

Paul opened his mouth as if to tell George what he might go do with himself. However, he didn't get a chance as John leaned down and pulled up the dust ruffle to check beneath the bed.

"BLOODY hell!"

They all jumped at John's exclamation. Ringo glanced nervously at the door, hoping the manager hadn't heard. The others were spared the trouble of asking for an explanation, as John lifted the ruffle higher...

...revealing not one, but two robots.

Paul was shocked. "How the...how did that happen?"

George looked incredulous as he did the math in his head, and came up with a sum that was far from reassuring. "That box just unfolded itself, and turned into another robot. The thing makes more of itself!"

"It can't be!" Ringo protested. "I mean, that's not right, is it?"

With the air of a carnival barker, John waved his hand towards the pair, which were cheerfully wandering free from the bed's confines. "They don't seem quite bothered by that notion, Ringo me love."

George frowned and stepped back a pace. One of the pair was lurching its way towards his feet in a disconcertingly resolute fashion. "This'll be on the news, won't it?" He stepped back again, then again, moving in a circular sidestep, as the thing seemed determined to attach itself to his shins.

"Oh, great," Paul replied sarcastically. He reached down and turned the second robot around, sending it marching back towards John. "I can see the headlines now, eh." He gestured widely. "'Beatles unleash horde of robots upon unsuspecting city...'"

When it reached him, John reached down and turned it right back around, sending it on a return trajectory towards Paul. "Ahh, don't panic, Macca, two of the little buggers isn't what I'd call a h..."

As if on cue, the two mechanoids stopped. Their round eyes flashed. They cocked their heads simultaneously and went CLANG, CLANK, CLONG, WHIRR-RRR-RRR...and two more cubes were plopped into existence.

The Beatles stared open-mouthed for a moment. "Oh, crap!" Paul said. Nobody bothered to ask if he was making a scatological pun as he went on: "When are they going to STOP?"

John rose from the bed, managing to look resolute and grim despite still being clad only in shorts. "They stop now, I say." He picked up George's pursuer, turned it round, and poked at the buttons on its back. This had no effect; it continued waving its arms and legs in a walking motion, grinning away as if mocking his efforts. Undaunted, John whacked it hard with one hand, then shook it up and down fiercely, whacked it harder, then dropped it to the ground and stomped on it. Sadly, this had a worse effect on him then on his target, and he was soon hopping on one foot and swearing copiously.

Meanwhile, the two newest cubes were well on their way to forming a new pair. John lost his temper completely, picked up the robot, and hurled it violently against a wall. It hit with a satisfying crunch, producing a good-sized impact crater in the wall. The hapless automaton thudded down to the carpet. It was still moving, but far more jerkily, and trailed brightly colored wires from where a panel had come loose. "Ha!" John shouted triumphantly, and picked it up as if to throw it again.

Before he could do so, however, Ringo broke in with an alarmed cry. "The tour! We'll be late!"

There were several groans and curses from around the room. John spat back a colorfully detailed suggestion as to where the tour and everyone associated with it could go. However, Paul grumbled, "No, he's right. Let's just leave the things. We can get rid of them later."

Concerned, George looked down at the four (well, possibly three-and-a-half) robots that were currently sharing their quarters. "I don't mean to cause any alarm," he said, stepping over two, "but if they keep doubling...I mean, not doubling, but..." he groped around for the concept he was trying to express, couldn't find it, and decided to forget about it. "Fine, never mind, then." He vanished out of sight into the adjoining room, calling back, "The sooner we get this done with, the sooner we can be gone."

The bandmates hustled around to get dressed and make themselves presentable, occasionally stepping over--or on--an offending robot. Then, just as they were ready to depart, straightening ties, smoothing down hair, and brushing off clothes, they heard a horrifying series of sounds.

CLANG, CLANK, CLONG, WHIRR-RRR-RRR....

They all had the exact same thought at the exact same time. "They can't have made more!" Paul exclaimed.

They all looked. John uttered a series of words that should, by all rights, have set the air on fire, followed by: "They HAVE! The little bastards! There's FOUR of those sodding cubes!"

Suddenly, the phone rang in the other room. George snarled some words that made John's previous ones sound almost saintly, and rushed to answer it. Paul followed him, though what he hoped to accomplish was unclear.

John proceeded to stomp the newest cubes flat. They ceased to unfold themselves, and lay in the carpet rather forlornly, like discarded attempts at modern sculpture. Then John snatched up two of the full-sized robots, and began smashing them together as if playing the cymbals (badly). Less certain, or possibly just less violent, Ringo grabbed a third. He began whacking its face against the corner of the drink table; hesitantly at first, then with increasing gusto.

In the midst of this cacophony, George grabbed up the phone. "Hello?!" he practically shouted into the receiver, covering his other ear as muffled grunts and expletives sounded from the next room, interspersed with bangs, crashes, and the endless loud grinding. "What? Yes! We'll be--hang on--SHUT UP IN THERE!" he yelled into the next room. "What? No, not y--hang on--"

Meanwhile, Paul was trying to get a word in edgewise. "Tell him--wait--hang on--tell him we're--"

"No! What? No! Nothing's wrong!"

"Tell him--will you listen to me--"

"Shut up, will you?! NO! Not you!"

Giving up on his attempts to communicate, Paul stuck his head into the other room. John flung the now-battered and non-functional robots to the floor, wiped his brow, and glared down at the twitching heaps of gears and wires. Meanwhile, the head of Ringo's robot was now hanging by a thread. It continued to grin rather morbidly, bobbing to and fro as the drummer continued his rhythmic assault. He whipped it back over his head in both hands for a final plunge...

Paul was then forced to duck, as the head of Ringo's victim chose that very moment to fly free. It missed clocking him in the forehead by the barest margin. Meanwhile John, who'd clearly gone beyond the frayed edges of sanity, yanked that room's phone from the wall and began smashing it against the final robot. This added a CRASH-CHING! CRASH-CHING! to the cacophony as George continued:

"What? No, it's nothing!" CRASH-CHING! CRASH-CHING! "Yes! We'll be right down! Goodbye!"

George slammed the receiver down, then stormed into the next room with an expression that would've sent the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse running for their mommies. His voice was a tight hiss as he observed, "Thank you for being so bloody helpful!" John, having satisfied his urge for telephonal homicide, hurled the weapon to the floor, and stood breathing hard. Then he beat his chest and yelled like a triumphant Tarzan, a sound that trailed off into hacking coughs. George only shook his head in disgusted silence.

Ringo glanced down at what he was doing, and rather sheepishly tossed the now-headless robot aside. It landed on its feet and set off on a wobbly march, seeming unperturbed by its recent decapitation. Paul just pinched the bridge of his nose as if feeling the onset of a blinding headache.

After several seconds of nothing but the low whirring noise, George finally spoke. "Look. Let's just...get down there and get this done with. All right? It's not like we can do anything about..." He glanced down. "...this."

John drew a deep breath. "Right." He seemed to have calmed down, and straightened out his suit, taking a step towards the door. "Right, men, let's be off." However, he happened to glance down at the still-ambulatory robot, and his righteous rage flared up anew. He snatched it up and strode towards the rear of the room, saying, "Bet if I throw it out the window it'll break...!"

"Don't!" Paul protested, alarmed. "You'll hit the fans!" (There were, of course, fans gathered far below the window, outside the hotel. There were always fans.)

John had a rather dangerous gleam in his eye. "So?"

"Just leave it!" George insisted. "We have to go!" Grudgingly, Paul and Ringo nodded and moved towards the door as George opened it. With one final scowl and a comment that cast doubt on the legitimacy of his adversary's parentage, John flung it to the floor. It landed on its feet and continued its oblivious stride, as if deliberately mocking him.

Then, as the door shut behind the exiting foursome, the robot stopped.

From across the room, the eyes in its head flashed white.

Its motionless body gave a CLANK, then a CLANG, then a CLONG...

***

Some time later, the Beatles stood listening to the sniffy, officious manager officiously sniffing something about the such-and-such-hotel having been founded by so-and-so in the year something-or-other. They all nodded, not all that enthusiastically. However, their erstwhile guide was far too enamored with the sound of his own voice to notice their less than overwhelming interest.

He led the group down the spacious, elaborately decorated hallway. The band was accompanied, as always, by a phalanx of camera-snapping reporters. It was unclear if any of them were interested in the hotel itself, or simply the fact that the Beatles were staying there. The latter seemed far more likely, as even the photographers who took pictures of the decor and architecture managed to work a Beatle or two into most of the shots.

There were also several others along for the tour; most likely other well-to-do sorts staying at the hotel and eager for a photo-op. These ladies and gentlemen gave the manager's lecture the bare minimum of attention, and spent the rest of the time shamelessly trying to attract the cameras' attention. Many of them looked irked that the four young rockers seemed to be monopolizing the spotlight.

As the tour wore on to seemingly-endless lengths, George asked Paul under his breath, "How long has it been?"

Paul checked his watch, then sighed and whispered back, "Ten minutes."

"Oh." George looked up, listened to the manager's interminable nasal drone, looked around the corridor, rocked back and forth on his heels, whistled a few notes, then leaned over to Paul again. "How long has it been now?"

"Ssshh!" Paul sharply elbowed his bandmate in the ribs, causing him to stumble slightly before catching himself. This attracted the manager's notice. He paused in his lecture, gave them a look that would've turned fresh milk to green cheese, then continued on.

The tour proceeded down the richly carpeted hall. The Beatles managed to work themselves towards the back of the group, so they were separated from the manager by a few layers of paparazzi and camera-seekers. As they stopped again, and the tour leader expounded at length on the qualities of the chandelier over their heads, John leaned over to a gilt-framed mirror on the wall and made faces at himself. Then his expression froze, and he blinked. He turned to his bandmates and quietly asked, "D'you hear that noise?"

Ringo began, "What n..." before he heard it too. His jaw dropped. "Oh, no."

A faint, yet all-too-familiar, whirring sound met their ears. They glanced back to see one of the robots, still grinning maniacally, lurching around the corner towards them. Clenching his jaw, George hissed, "Where the hell did that come from?" It was coming closer, and it was only a matter of time till everyone saw it...

Ringo lunged for it, snatched it up, and plunked it in an ornate brass urn alongside the mirror. Unfortunately, the metal jug only served to amplify the noise, turning what had been a low whrr-rr-rr into a loud, echoing RRL-NNG-RRLL-NNGGG...

All heads turned back towards the noise, the manager's mouth hanging open, as he'd been interrupted in mid-word. The Beatles tried hard not to look guilty, and failed quite miserably. The urn was beginning to quiver visibly in time with the sounds it was producing. John hurriedly sidestepped in front of it and gave a brilliant smile. The manager had closed his mouth, then opened it again. However, Paul quickly blurted, pointing urgently down the hall in front of them, "Er, could you please, ah, tell us more about that painting--that fascinating painting--down there? Please?"

Everyone turned back the other way. John fired off a kick at the urn. This produced a loud clang and caused the noise from inside to change in pitch, but not get noticeably quieter. However, Paul's ruse had worked...the manager was unable to resist an opportunity to brag, and accordingly the whole procession moved along behind him towards the aforementioned painting. John surreptitiously fired off an obscene gesture as they walked, then turned and aimed the same gesture at the vibrating vase. It didn't seem to be offended.

As the rest of the group gathered obediently around the painting, the Beatles took the opportunity to drop back and confer amongst themselves. "How...?" Paul began in an urgent whisper, overlapping Ringo's "It's not my fault! I didn't do it!" George looked as if he was about to speak, then glanced to his left. "Oh, bloody hell," he observed.

A pair of the hotel's maids were approaching, conversing animatedly. One of them held a dripping mop in one hand, in in the other, a small, black toy robot, which was determinedly marching in place. The younger of the pair was pushing a cart laden with bedsheets. Several bulges in the sheets appeared to be moving. In due time, a metal appendage appeared from beneath them, then vanished again.

The bandmates swallowed hard. The maids had spotted the manager and his captive audience in the main hallway. The older one, holding the robot aloft in a resolute fashion, headed straight for them, clearly intending to have a word with the boss. The younger one looked nervous, as if suspecting they'd get in trouble for this. But she followed her companion, obediently pushing the cart along. The manager was going to spot them any minute now...

"Excuse me, ladies." Paul rushed over and stepped into their path, giving his most charming smile. "Would you mind if we...?"

The dark-haired elder lady only glowered at him, clearly neither knowing nor caring who he was. However, the younger one obviously recognized him. She gasped out loud, then fluttered her hands wildly and launched into hysterical ear-piercing shrieks.

Every head turned towards them. Thinking fast and working with uncanny precision, the Beatles took the following actions. One: Paul seized the younger maid in his arms and kissed her roundly on the mouth. Two: he stepped away from her, leaving her stunned and speechless, then grabbed the older maid and kissed her as well. Three: as the younger maid fainted dead away, George snatched the robot away from the distracted elder. Three: He stuffed it under the sheets on the cart as the older maid whacked Paul full in the face with the damp end of the mop. And four: John and Ringo snatched up the full bundle of sheets with its moving cargo, yanked open a nearby door, shoved the lot inside, and slammed the door shut again.

Then they straightened up and faced the stares of the silent crowd. (Except Paul, who was trying to wipe his face while his "victim" yelled imprecations at him in Spanish.) The manager's face was turning several unattractive shades of red. "Well," George said, shifting from one foot to another. There was a muffled scream from the other side of the closed door. "We need to, er, get ready for the press conference, if you'll excuse us, it's been a lovely tour, thank you." Then he spun on his heels and bolted down the hall.

He was quickly followed by Paul (who had to duck another swipe by the vengeful mop-wielder), John (who grinned and waved in an excessively gleeful fashion before dashing off), and Ringo (who could only smile feebly, wave vaguely towards his departing mates, and say, "Er"). He was silent for another moment, then turned and jumped over the younger maid as she roused herself with a moan. Then he sprinted away.

***

"I've always admired your knack with a bird, Paul," John quipped, as the bandmate in question toweled off his face in front of the restroom mirror. "You simply must tell us how you do it."

Paul opened his mouth as if to reply, then looked down, stooped to pick up a robot, and dropped it in the trash bin, which was already occupied by several others. "How many of them ARE there?!" he demanded, trying to push his damp hair back in place with his fingers.

"Well," Ringo began hesitantly as he straightened his tie, "Counting the ones from this morning, we've seen at least, er..." He counted on his fingers. "Ten, eleven...?"

"Twelve," George corrected, as he emerged from a stall carrying a marching robot in one hand. He sent it to join its fellows in the trash can, which was starting to get full. "And that's only the ones we've seen. God knows how many are running around this place." He shook his head. "Guess we didn't smash them up enough, eh?"

"But they can't go on like that forever, can they?" Ringo asked with faint hope. "Making more of themselves, I mean? It has to stop somewhere, doesn't it?"

"Me lad, I don't want to find out." John bared his teeth at the mirror, ran his hand through his hair, then stood back and faced the others. "Look, let's just get this bloody press conference done with and be off. This can all get straightened out after we've gone."

"Right," George said, nodding grimly. "Though whoever sent us that thing in the first place, I'd like to have a word or two with them..." He looked back over his shoulder, saw another robot emerging from under a stall door, made as if to get it, then decided to just forget about it. He followed John out the door, accompanied by Paul, who made a last adjustment of his collar before they left. Finally Ringo departed the premises just as another man began to enter.

"Hello," Ringo offered absently as they passed each other. The man looked puzzled, then did an astonished double take as the door closed behind him.

***

The foursome stood in the quiet, almost reverent silence that always pervades the inside of an elevator. They all faced the front, neither looking at each other nor speaking. None of them would admit that they were all nervously straining their ears for whirring and grinding noises. Nor would they allow themselves to look around their feet for small, dark, marching figures.

The elevator dinged obediently as it descended past floor after floor.

Paul broke the silence first. "Well."

John nodded seriously, as if his bandmate had said something of profound import. "Well," he agreed.

"It'll all be over soon," George said, trying to sound like he believed it.

"Besides," Ringo concluded, "What more could possibly happen?"

On the universal list of Things Never To Say Under Any Circumstances, that's got to rank pretty near the top.

***

Throughout the unsuspecting hotel, a simple yet astonishing equation had been playing itself out.

1 + 1 = 2.  2 + 2 = 4.  4 + 4 = 8.

The sums are fairly benign, to begin with.

8 + 8 = 16.  16 + 16 = 32.  32 + 32 = 64.

Each subsequent generation is twice the size of the previous one.

64 + 64 = 128.  128 + 128 = 256.  256 + 256 = 512.

The elapsed time between doublings is a mere manner of minutes.

512 + 512 = 1,024. 1,024 + 1,024 = 2,048.  2,048 + 2,048 = 4,096.

Someone is bound to have noticed them by now.

4,096 + 4,096 = 8,192.  8,192 + 8,192 = 16,384.  16,384 + 16,384 = 32,768.

This is starting to get rather alarming.

32,768 + 32,768 = 65,536.  65,536 + 65,536 = 98,304.  98,304 + 98,304 = 196,608.

The elevator carrying the Beatles has reached the ground floor.

196,608 + 196,608 = 393,216.  393,216 + 393,216 = 786,432. 786,432 + 786,432 = 1,572,864...

The rest of the numbers are unnecessary. "Oh God" will suffice at this point.

***

Smiling valiantly and attempting to look like they'd been having a most delightful morning, the Beatles entered the lobby to predictable applause. It seemed like the reporters and photographers they'd encountered earlier had managed to survive the ordeal of the hotel tour, and brought along more of their friends besides. The attention-seekers from before were there too, occasionally craning their necks to try and get in front of somebody's camera. A handful of lucky fans stood along the back, clapping and jumping up and down and shrieking exuberantly and generally acting like idiots. Finally, the manager stood off to one side, attempting a fixed rictus of a grin every time a camera was aimed in his direction, and working his features in apoplectic fury every time one wasn't.

Dutifully, the foursome took their places at a long table which had been set up at the base of the ornate lobby staircase. They waved jauntily and greeted the press as the pops of flashbulbs added their brief illuminations to the scene. The band sat and settled themselves, trying not to look a bit nervous. Nervous? their expressions seemed to say. Nonsense, why should we be nervous? Nothing unusual has been happening, has it? Of course not, nothing at all. Get us out of here. Now.

A gabble of simultaneous questions from the press was shushed, and a bespectacled reporter in the front row was given the go-ahead sign. "Are you enjoying America so far?" he asked.

"Oh yes, absolutely, couldn't be better," came the overlapping responses. Ringo glanced down at the glass of water that had been set on the table before him. The surface of the water was starting to quiver.

More reporters waved frantically, and one was acknowledged. "Is there any truth to the rumor that your next album will feature accompaniment by the Bulgarian National Symphony?" This was in the serious tone one would use to ask a major head of state about a recent declaration of war.

"Er..." Paul began. "We, ah, can't comment on that at this time." He looked up at one of the hanging lamps. It was starting to sway.

More questions. More answers. Increasingly nervous smiles from the interviewees. Beyond the phalanx of reporters, George noticed the pair of maids from earlier yelling frantically at the manager. Much pointing and arm-waving was involved. George swallowed and glanced up at the ceiling. Beneath the constant pop of the flashbulbs, a low rumbling was making itself heard. No, not just a rumbling...more like a...grinding...

"We've got time for one last question, I think," George said very quickly. His eyes met those of his bandmates. Either George had suddenly developed telepathic powers or the others were simply thinking in concert, as they all immediately nodded and echoed his statement. There were disappointed-sounding noises from the press, followed by much hand-waving as each fought to be the last one called upon. A few of the more astute cameramen looked around in a puzzlement, noticing that flakes of paint were starting to rain down from the ceiling.

The lucky reporter who'd been selected cleared his throat, smiled uncertainly, reached up to wipe his glasses, cleared his throat again. "Well," he said. He paused. "You four have seen a great deal in your young lives," he began pretentiously. "You've traveled round the world, played to thousands of adoring fans, topped the charts all over the globe..." He finally seemed to notice the fierce Get on with it! looks he was getting from the band.

A chip of plaster fell into his hair. He didn't notice. A loud crack was heard. The low underlying sound, like distant thunder, grew louder. "Well," the reporter began again. There was another crack, louder than the last. Several of his fellows were whispering to each other in growing alarm. The floor was starting to tremble. Finally, after all that, he said, "And so, if I may, I'd just like to ask you one question...

...What do you think the future holds for the Beatles?"

There was silence.

The universe held its breath.

"Well," Ringo began, slowly and with great portent, "You never really know what the future will bring, do you?"

And at that, quite naturally, all hell broke loose.

With a sound like a gargantuan slot machine hitting the world's biggest jackpot, an unfathomable number of clanking, whirring robots came avalanching down the stairs like all Ten Plagues put together and adjusted for inflation. The Beatles barely escaped being crushed beneath the glossy black tide as they scrambled away in a desperate rush for safety. The room filled with screams, curses, and more screams, barely audible in the deafening clank and grind and whir.

The robots cascaded down the stairs in a twitching, clanging, clonking flood. They dropped through widening cracks in the ceiling, accompanied by rains of plaster and paint chips. They lurched forth from air vents, marching with their arms extended and their faces frozen in hideous grins like a somewhat low-budget version of a "living dead" movie. Everywhere you looked, there were robots. There were probably robots everywhere you didn't look, too.

The lobby was utter pandemonium. The reporters panicked, running about wildly, yelling, cursing, begging divine forgiveness for a lifetime of sin and disbelief, et cetera. The crack and pop of flashbulbs doubled in frequency as the astonished cameramen recorded the goings-on for posterity, in between swatting robots away from their feet, legs, and valuable photographic equipment.

The hotel manager dropped into a boneless faint. His slumping body was borne aloft by the mechanical horde, predating crowd-surfing rock-concertgoers by at least a decade. The younger maid was giving her vocal cords a workout today, as she was shrieking in a voice that would shatter greenhouses. The other, clearly made of sterner stuff, began laying about with her mop, scything through the creatures like a domestic version of the Grim Reaper. Bedlam was the order of the day; chaos didn't just reign, it had achieved permanent unchallenged sovereignty and was coming up with several new tax laws.

The Beatles, meanwhile, managed to wrest themselves free of the mechanized onslaught. Running (or stumbling, mostly) in four different directions, they found themselves in different locations, fighting off the rampaging automaton army.

John was still stuck in the lobby, and was nearly bowled over by a fleeing reporter. Flailing his arms, he managed to stay upright, and glared about him with the air of a barbarian chieftain searching for his favorite battleaxe. He snatched up a fallen chair and swung it about in wide arcs, scattering dozens of robots with each motion. If he'd had a whip and a gaudy outfit, he might have passed for a lion tamer, albeit a slightly deranged one.

Paul and George sprinted down a hallway, ankle-deep in robots. They ducked into a room, which turned out to be the kitchen. Any hopes of sanctuary were quickly dashed as the kitchen workers fled in a panic past them, knocking them aside in their heedless dash. The last one out slammed the door behind him. George tugged frantically at the handle as Paul pounded on the door and shouted for help, but it was no good. The door was stuck tight, and robots were dropping in from all over. The kitchen was beginning to fill up like the galley of the sinking Titanic, only with a lot more clanking.

Paul edged to his right, backed against the wall. He cast his eyes frantically about for a means of defense. George scrambled up onto a countertop, kicking off several robots that'd grabbed his pants leg with their pincher-hands. He looked to his left, spotted a sink, and crab-walked sideways towards it. He flinched as a robot plummeted past his head, missing him by the barest margin.

On the other side of the room, Paul was clambering up a rack of shelves, dumping off several fresh-baked pastries along the way. These were tragically wasted as they were trampled underfoot by the robotic legions. He sat down on the top and braced himself with both hands and both feet, as the structure began to quiver alarmingly. Paul looked down and seized a frying pan hanging from the rack, holding it aloft in the manner of a tennis player, ready to smack the things what-for if any made it up there.

George, meanwhile, had not been idle. He grabbed up the nearest robot and stuffed it head-first into the drain. Its head fit neatly in. Unfortunately, the rest of it didn't even come close. From across the way, perched precariously on top of the rack, Paul saw what his bandmate was trying to accomplish. "Here, here!" he called, fumbling for a set of long metal utensils that dangled from the corner of the uppermost shelf. He came up with a long-handled metal spoon, and lobbed it at George.

He snatched it out of the air, then gave a yell of defiance and plunged the spoon down handle-first, ramming the upside-down drain-occupying robot in the...well, you know. George gripped the spoon in both hands and continued to jab the robot in a most socially unacceptable fashion until it had been reduced to bits. He'd bent the spoon in his efforts, however. He glanced up sharply, and Paul tossed him another utensil, trying desperately to keep the rack from toppling--it was starting to wobble dangerously as an endless tide of robots poured into the room from every available opening. George kicked four or five more off the counter as he grabbed another victim, stuffed it head-first into the drain, and started all over again...

Finally, Ringo had sped down an adjoining hallway that was partially robot-free (i.e., you could still tell what color the carpet was). He trod on several of them as he pelted to a halt, saw a door, opened it, dashed inside, and slammed it closed. It was only when he stood inside, bracing himself against the door and breathing hard, that his brain registered the Universal Symbol that had graced the other side. It had been wearing a skirt.

There were a few dozen scattered robots in here, clanking and whirring and slipping their way across the white tile. A steady stream of them plopped through a broken ceiling vent. Thinking fast (or possibly not thinking at all), Ringo grabbed a robot in one hand, flung open a stall door with another, and chucked the thing in the bowl. It continued its mindless walk, sloshing up the water and grinning maniacally.

Ringo grabbed the handle and flushed, setting the robot to spinning madly. He stuffed in another, and another, filling up the bowl and flushing it again. The imprisoned group spun and spun, scraping long lines along the porcelain. Ringo lifted one leg and stomped at them ferociously, splashing water everywhere, but breaking up the robots enough that a few parts went down the drain. It gurgled, clogged, and began to overflow. Not pausing for an instant, Ringo rushed to another stall.

Some still-rational part of his mind posed the question: What are you DOING?? To which another part sheepishly replied: Well, can YOU think of a better idea?

It didn't seem so. More robots were starting to fill the room. The clanking of their metal feet and grinding of their gears echoed off the tiled walls. Puddles of water were starting to inch their way across the floor thanks to the overflowing toilet.

He grabbed up more, two at a time, stuffed them in another bowl, kicked, stomped, and flushed. Grab, stuff, kick, stomp, flush. He flung open a third stall. A loud feminine shriek sounded from within. "Sorry!" he said quickly, slammed the door shut again, and moved to the next stall...

...Back in the lobby, John continued to lay waste with his now-dented chair, sending entire legions of puny, grinning adversaries into the air with each strike. Of course, many just picked themselves up and kept walking, but John was in far too transcendent a battle-rage to be swayed by mere logic. He shouted and swore, clothes dishevelled, hair mussed and spiky like a hedgehog's bristles. "Hah! Once more unto the breeches, dear friends! We have nothing to jeer but beer itself! One for one, and all for all...!"

...George's last effort bent the final utensil into an amusing zigzag shape...he grimaced, and spun in place to stamp more robots down the drain with both feet, but the sink was filled to the brim, there was no room for more...

...Paul clonked a few robots that had made their way up to his safe perch, flattening their heads like pancakes, but there were always new attackers to take their place...He gritted his teeth and gripped the edges of the rack for dear life as the unstoppable flood caused the whole thing to sway like a high-rise in an earthquake...

...Ringo had used up every available white ceramic object of any kind, and looked about frantically as the door cracked open and more of the relentless mechanoids came marching and grinning in...he grabbed one in both hands, raised it over his head, and flung it bodily out the now-open door and back into the hall...the Voice of Reason once again inquired what he hoped to gain by this, but he mentally informed it to sod off...

...the situation looked desperate...

...it was useless, they would be overwhelmed...

...then...

...all at once, every single robot in the entire building shuddered to a halt.

Each one made a CLANG. Then a CLANK. Then finally a CLONG, the noises amplified and reverberating like demonic church bells.

An uncountable number of squarish heads tilted to one side as if pondering something quite fascinating.

With a combined sound like a monstrous beehive, each and every robot went WHIRR-RRR-RRR....

The four individuals who knew what was coming next thought, Oh, GOD, or words to that effect...

An innumerable number of metal cubes went PLOP...

...and that was all.

The robots remained motionless, frozen in whatever position they were in (or had been stuffed into). The small metal cubes stayed cubes. Nothing else happened; nothing at all.

George and Paul looked at each other, then glanced around and cautiously began to climb down from their safe perches. They stumbled and flinched their way to the door...walking through all those metal things was quite hard on the feet. Between the two of them, they managed to wrench the door open, causing a flood of  toy robots to pour in upon them. However, the bandmates pushed their way free and struggled out into the hallway.

Ringo examined the scene that surrounded him. The only sounds were that of running water overflowing onto the floor, and the unfortunate woman gasping for breath behind the stall door. Ringo looked embarrassed, wiped his hands thoroughly, and waded over to the closed stall. Then he rapped several times on the door, and called, "You can come out now." Immediately afterward, he slapped his forehead and mentally called himself several variations of 'idiot'. Feeling certain that anything else he could do would only make things worse, he sloshed his way to the exit and headed out, carefully closing the door behind him.

John stood gripping the battered chair, sweating and breathing hard and glaring around him as if suspecting some kind of trick. Then he barked out a laugh, flung the chair aside with a crash, and began to kick his way through the fallen hordes like a schoolboy deliberately scattering piles of carefully-raked leaves.

Most of the reporters and photographers seemed to have fled, or were off cowering somewhere. A few were picking themselves up and groaning, and one photographer examined his broken and useless camera with a forlorn expression. A few reporters had urgently raced off to find a phone; whether to call their editors or their psychiatrists, or both, was unclear. The not-so-lucky fans who'd witnessed the event had likewise vanished, and would either swear off the Beatles altogether, or have one heck of a story to tell their kids one day.

The junior maid was nowhere to be found. Possibly she had escaped, or was hiding and mulling over the idea of joining a very remote convent. Meanwhile, the elder stood and surveyed the carnage, turning the broken mop handle over and over in her hand. She nodded grimly in satisfaction, then strode over to where the gibbering manager was curled up in a corner. She stood over him and looked down. When she finally caught what remained of his attention, she folded her arms and said in accented but clearly understandable English:  "I quit." At that, she turned on her heels and walked out.

***

In short order, the bruised and battered Beatles met up in a hallway that connected their former battle zones. They were the only visible people in the area; however, distant screams, sobs, and hysterical laughter testified to the presence of other humans, albeit in various degrees of sanity.

The relative quiet was eerie after the long siege. John looked down, and punted the nearest robot the length of the hall, just for good measure. It landed with many a clank and clatter, echoing into the distance...

CRASH-CLATTER-CLANG-CRASH!!!

The foursome leaped straight in the air as every single robot simultaneously fell to pieces. Breathing hard and trying to still their hammering hearts, they stared at the scene. Instead of being surrounded by robots, they were now surrounded by a sea of scattered mechanical parts. John shook his head and said a word that was meant as an expletive, not an imperative. Ringo turned in a slow circle to survey the devastation, and felt something crinkle in his pocket. Without thinking, he reached in and pulled it out.

It was the instructions, now thoroughly crumpled and creased, that had come with the original package. He unfolded the paper, and slowly perused the instructions.

Then, even more slowly, he turned the paper over.

The other side read:

{WARNING!!! Not to over-tax multiplicity function! Ceaseation of vital functioning parts to ensue! Not reccomend for over-use!!}

"Not to over-tax multiplicity function," George repeated carefully.

"Er," Paul hazarded a guess, "So that means if they make too many of themselves, they stop working?"

"Oh, I hope so," Ringo said, his tone mixing equal parts misery and desperate optimism. He looked around at the wreckage once again. "How are we going to explain all this?"

"Who's going to pay for all of it?" George wondered.

"And who sent us the bloody thing in the first place?" Paul finished.

John opened his mouth as if he was about to say something very, very clever. Then he closed it again as he realized he couldn't think of anything very, very clever. So he only undid his tie, shrugged off his jacket, and suggested, "Let's be off."

The other three looked at each other, then did the same, discarding jackets and ties along the way as they headed off. As they turned a corner, Paul's voice came echoing back over the silent, unmoving sea of broken pieces. "Anyone feel like a drink, then?"

John's sardonic answer came back. "Paulie, I thought you'd never ask." The sounds of their voices and footsteps faded off into the distance, and were gone.

***

Epilogue.

Several weeks later, the Beatles awoke in yet another pair of adjoining hotel rooms. All of them secretly felt like they'd been doing this for nine thousand consecutive years, chronological evidence to the contrary. As was often the case, they were in less-than-ideal condition to greet the new day. They struggled their way back to consciousness with a vague feeling that whatever they'd each done the night before, the fact that they didn't remember much of it was probably a blessing.

Ringo groaned heavily as he tried to sit up from his bed, thought better of it, and flopped back down again. "What city are we in?" he painfully demanded of the world at large.

Paul, who'd just entered with George from the adjoining room, rubbed the back of his head and added, "What state are we in?"

"Bugger that," John said, his voice somewhat muffled by the fact that his face was still pressed against the pillow. "What country are we in?"

Paul pondered this. "We're still in America, aren't we?" No one seemed to have an answer. "Aren't we?"

George sat down on the floor, slumping back against the wall, and sighed heavily. "Am I the only one who..."

"Yes," John interrupted.

George continued undaunted. "...thinks the bloom is off the rose somewhat, touring?" No one answered this, either, although most likely they were all thinking much the same thing. In various stages of simmering resentment, glum resignation, and chemically-induced misery, they steeled themselves for another day of monotonous reporters, and hysterical fans, and snitty, officious hotel managers, and...

...several brisk knocks came from the main door.

The Beatles looked at each other. A mutually repressed memory had just begun to resurface, like a swamp monster slowly rising from the primordial ooze. It involved small dark metallic objects that went "whir" a lot. Much screaming was involved in the memory, too, and not the kind the band usually got.

They looked at the door. They looked at each other again.

Ringo drew himself up and strode manfully, if a bit unsteadily, towards the door. Before the other three could begin to protest, he unlocked it, flung it open...

...turned the card on the doorknob to the "Do Not Disturb" side, then closed and locked the door again.

With that, he walked back to them, clapping his hands up and down in the manner of indicating a job well done. They all exchanged wicked grins as Ringo sat heavily down on his bed and took his shoes off, which for some reason he'd neglected to do the previous evening. The Beatles said not another word to each other, but at some mutual unspoken agreement, all just went back to bed.

-------------

Margaret C. Racine has been writing odd little sci-fi stories on and off for the past several years, and is an award-winning watercolorist in her "other life."  She enjoys classic rock, Star Wars, Transformers (yes, THOSE Transformers), and mystery novels.  She lives in Arizona.  Her website, Creative Dreams, can be found at www.cr-dreams.com.