... and the new world faded in, lawns, small houses jammed together, parked cars, blacktop pavement, sidewalk under their feet, hedges, a red tricycle, a U.S. flag fluttering over a door.

But John's cry of "We're home!" was premature, for on second look the cars were finny and Fifties, and—quadruple double take—a middle-aged man on his knees, weeding his garden, wore yellow gloves that contrasted well with the red cock's-comb on his bald head. His wife, coming from the house with a glass of lemonade, had narrow, black "New Jersey" glasses and bright blue skin.

As he stood up, wiped his hands on his dirty jeans, and reached to take the drink, the man glanced at the four and frowned. John heard him mutter to the woman, "Damn hairy weirdoes in their faggot clothes.…"

"This is rubbish," snapped John, made even angrier by the painful adrenaline rush he'd gotten from thinking they were home. "Just garbage. We didn't ask for magic, they just fuckin' dumped it on us, and of course it's got strings attached!" He scowled at his near-nakedness. "Not overdressed, am I? Jesus!" He kicked the top off a dandelion. "I'm lucky I have shoes on!"

"At least you know what you're doing!" Paul exclaimed, carefully clasping his hands and holding still. "I'm lucky I can walk! Can you see me in a crowd? Why couldn't they wait til I'd practiced a bit?"

Meanwhile, George moved the location bar around. The gem flashed; he froze. "When you're done bitching, I've got a fix on the thingy."

"Why're you so bloody calm?" demanded John.

"Because I'm a better person than you. Come on, let's just go find it and get this over with."

Grumbling, John agreed; Paul sighed and nodded; but Ringo didn't say anything, wasn't even facing them. His eyes were shut, his face rapt. "Hello?" said John, snapping his fingers next to Ringo's ear.

"Huh?" Ringo jumped and opened his eyes. "Oh, sorry, just lookin' round. I know where we are." Dramatic pause. "New Zork, 1954."

"New Zork?" chorused the others.

Yes, they were in "New Zork, the Umpire State" according to a license plate on a blue Idsel. A Crooklyn Dodgers pennant waved from the antenna, and an empty Plucky Strikes cigarette pack lay on the dash.

"Somebody's bullshitting us," John muttered.

"It's an alternate Earth," said Paul. "This is actually rather fascinating. I hope we have time to look around and see what else is different. Anyway, at least it's a 50s alternate Earth; we won't be around. Be rather sticky if we were." The others grunted agreement.

"Come on," said George, and they followed the location bar signal down the street.

Ringo fell behind, stopping to visualize things he couldn't quite see. Not every named thing was different, he quickly discovered, noticing an issue of Life magazine that stuck out of a mailbox. He wondered if there was any rhyme or reason to the differences.

When next he opened his eyes, the others were far down the road, waving and calling for him. About to run and catch up, he saw a newspaper in a trash can. That looked useful; he thought it to his hand and unfolded it, reading as he walked. It was a New Zork Post, dated Friday, June 19th, and the headline read USSR TESTS M-BOMB; PREZ URGES CALM. Below it was a photo of Dwight D. Eisenhower looking grim. Ringo skimmed the article, wondering if M-bomb was a twist of H-bomb or something else altogether, a Magic-bomb perhaps? The front page didn't say, but the story continued on page 16, so he leafed through, glancing at the headers. Harvey Says Give Us Our Rights; Man, 21, Murdered By Gang; Senate OKs Budget Bill. Just the small change of New Zork.

But he nearly dropped dead when he saw page 5.

BEAGLES ARRIVE IN NZC AMID YOUTH HYSTERIA

Ringo gaped at John, Paul, George, and himself grinning in a hotel room, all suits and innocence, except there was something odd about John, but Ringo couldn't try to figure out what, his mind was awhirl with shock. "It's the wrong year, it's 1954, oh shit!" Forget logic, just warn the others! He pelted after them, paper flapping in hand. "Wait!" But they'd already turned down another street. "Wait!" He put on a burst of speed and whipped around the corner, plowed into Paul's back. He bounced off, waving the paper. "Quick, hide, we're - "

But his voice died away as he joined the others in staring.

On a theater marquee across the street their four heads announced TALENT SHOW 1:00, 1ST PRIZE TWO BEAGLES TICKETS! to a long squirming line of kids over which several policemen kept watchful eyes. The creepiest thing was that the line was completely silent, though the kids could be seen talking and singing.

Then, a ripple of motion as heads turned and beheld their idols standing stupefied fifty feet away. For a moment the shock was mutual; then the whole line leaped forward, screaming inaudibly.

The four stood frozen; it wasn't real, just a silent bad dre-

"- EEEEEE!" The mob broke the sound barrier as they thundered into the road, and the four said "Christ!" and fled in different directions.

George ran half a block in panic, then thought Why am I doing this the hard way? He dove into a garage and *ping* became a cat, skidded behind a box. Seconds later kids flooded into the building and stopped bewildered, seeing him nowhere. He mentally snickered as they looked in trash cans, under a car, and, absurdly, under a flat pile of cardboard.

Then a girl with antennae for eyebrows pulled away his hiding place. He meowed up at her, innocent and indignant. To which she replied, shrieking, "I found him! He turned into a cat!" and lunged for him with chewed-up fingernails.

"Wrrra?" George yowled, jerking away so that the girl smashed her hands on the floor. Terrified, he streaked out of the garage (sparking excited cries), bounded across the street into a yard, leaped six feet and scrabbled to the top of a picket fence, jumped down gracefully to the other side, tore across a lawn, and plunged into bushes. Panting and hearing the kids swarm over the front yard, he *ping* became a mouse and burrowed into the dirt as they climbed the fence and clomped around the back yard in their saddle shoes and loafers, spreading bushes and calling "Geo - orge! Puss, puss, puss! Here, werekitty!"

John, easily outdistancing the kids, was suddenly and violently struck with the need to fly the hell away. He stopped dead, looking for a launching place. But there were no convenient ledges to jump from, no Ringo to give him a boost. A rooftop! But how to get up to one?

Here came the shrieking mob!

Later he wasn't sure whose idea it was, his or the Kansael's, as he blasted a jet of water from his feet. The soles of his shoes blew off as he rocketed straight up, beat his wings, caught the air, and was away! kicking his ruined shoes off for the kids to fight over.

Bounce bounce bounce, Paul was away from the kids so fast that he could no longer hear their shouts just seconds after he started to move. But before he could get a grip on what he was doing, he plowed into a parked car. And through it, taking out the front seat, the steering column, and most of the right side. Tangled in stuffing and car doors, he crashed through the glass door of a laundromat and slid upside-down into a thrashing washing machine.

Confused, Paul made nothing of screams, alarms, running feet. Liquid trickled down his back and onto his neck. Then a dreadful thought: I killed someone! He tore at the stuff around him. Just as he flung away enough of it to see, a shadow fell on him. He stared up at an inverted policeman, short and thick-necked, smiling slightly and tapping his truncheon on his palm. "Youse okay, buddy?" he asked with a transparent lack of concern.

Paul touched the liquid on his neck and looked at it. Soapy water. "Yeah. Is anyone hurt?"

"Not unless youse are. Lousy A-plus. Geddup. You're unner arrest. And don't try nothin'. I got a paralyze stick, an' it hurts like hell."

Ringo ran for his life up the street, pure panic keeping him ahead of the mob, but he was fading fast. He turned down an alley—disaster! It wasn't an alley, but a driveway to a closed flat-roofed garage! Dead end, no escape—except up! He looked down, mentally grabbed his waist, and yanked just as the kids converged on him. They batted at his feet, then at air as he rose out of reach.

Too preoccupied with holding himself to steer, Ringo caught his foot on the gutter pipe around the garage's roof. Concentration broken, he sprawled onto the roof, skinning his hands. "Oh no!" he cried, realizing that another blind flight would be suicide; even if he didn't hit anything, he couldn't concentrate long enough to reach a safe place. He scrambled up and stumbled to the other end of the garage, praying he could drop down without being seen—SCREEEEEEAM! "Fuck!" He ran to the middle of the roof, where the kids couldn't see him, and squatted down, catching his breath and wondering what the hell he was going to do now.

Warning the cop back, Paul let his legs fall. He stared on hands and knees at the laundry surging behind the cracked glass of the washer, then stood up. The cop's smile had reversed into a frown. Before Paul quite knew what was happening the man snapped handcuffs on him. An old man, obviously the owner of the laundromat, was tearing his hair and wailing in Yiddish; his fat wife, whose long lank hair floated around her head as if full of static, went round with a notepad, totting up the damage. The car Paul had hit lay upside-down on the sidewalk, and a crowd of rubberneckers peeped into the laundromat fearfully.

"Lucky youse didn't hit the gas tank," said the cop. He rubbed his nose, then squinted at Paul. "Ain't I seen youse somewheres before?"

Paul nodded absently, fascinated by the damage. "I did all this?"

The cop snorted. "No, it was gremlins. Youse Anglish? Thought so. Spread 'em." He prepared to pat Paul down for weapons. "Youse have the right ta remain silent, youse - " His fingers touched Paul's skin through the illusory clothing. "What the hell?" His face went white, and he jerked his hands away. "I thought your Ability was—but you're wearin' the cuffs! You can't be doin' magic!"

The cop's fright was strangely thrilling to Paul, but he had more important things to do, like not go to jail on a strange planet. With one jerk he snapped the cuffs, then pried his new bracelets off and dropped them on the floor. "Sorry about the damage," he said to the wide-eyed laundromat owners. "Maybe I can—"

"Youse broke the neut cuffs?!" the cop shouted, his voice jumping an octave on the word neut. "Youse broke the neut cuffs!"

Trying to ignore the cop, Paul attempted to pull out some of his diamond hair to give to the old man, but it didn't want to leave his head without a fierce struggle. Giving up, he made a relatively short hop toward the exit. "Look, let me go find me friends, I'll see if they have any money on them—"

The cop fumbled for his truncheon, raised and shakily pointed it at Paul. "Hold it, asshole!"

There was a tingle against Paul's ribs, but nothing more. "Sorry, but I can't stay," he said, taking another hop. The cop gasped and shrank back, the useless truncheon clattering to the floor, an exhilarating sense of power swept over Paul, and he hopped leisurely out of the building, followed by the cop's frantic yelling into his walkie-talkie: "Attention attention, this is Officer Kuhn, we have a 666, repeat 666, possibly A-plus Plus, request backup, hurry the hell up! Immune to - "

Paul laughed. Even in his "reduced" condition, he was invulnerable! Magic couldn't touch him, he wrecked cars like they were cardboard. "I love it!" he cried, leaping—

and an answering shriek of "Paul!" and rush of feet yanked him down from the clouds.

The kids, at first fuddled by the distance between Ringo and them, began trying to join him on the garage. Some went to the house and rang the bell, but no one was home. Others tried to climb the walls. A boy got on another's shoulders and gripped the drainpipe, but before he could pull himself up the two were knocked over and set upon by a hoard of jealous girls.

However, this didn't scare Ringo as much as the girl whose hair changed color, blue to red to green; or the glowing hands of another as she punched the two prone boys; or the boy with his Irish setter's tail wagging like mad. Most of the kids displayed some sort of magic or odd body part, and Ringo suffered unpleasant visions of fighting off a flock of flying kids, or dodging zaps from laser eyes. One consolation: If they had magic like that they'd've used it by—

"Hey!" Two hairy arms grabbed him from behind and dragged him back. "Leggo!" Ringo pried at the hands, but they were much stronger than him and wouldn't give. Before he could gather his thoughts and think at them, he was spun around and pushed to the edge of the garage. There his captor stopped, dangling him over the edge above a horde of excited kids with outstretched arms. Behind them was a big teenage boy in swimming trunks, hairy and muscular—and armless—and he yelled, "Get ready, I'm gonna drop him!"

When the ground stopped shaking and the squeals died away, George poked his whiskered little head out of his hole and took a cautious look-sniff around. His eyesight was atrocious, but the kids had clearly given up and left, so he wriggled out and tried to make sense of the last few minutes. How the hell did they know I was me? he demanded of anyone who might be listening. What kind of crazy place is this?

But no answer came, and he decided he'd be better occupied searching out and gathering up the others. *ping* He became a sparrow, flew back to the theater of disaster. The line was reforming in the silent zone under the watchful eyes of policemen, but not all of the kids had come back yet. George zoomed past, hoping he wouldn't inspire another frantic chase. But no one came running, and he angled off down the street.

He saw a pothole filled with water and assumed it was John's handiwork; but why he made it, and where he was, remained unknown.

Circling left: far away he saw a dispersing crowd, a shattered laundromat, and a skeleton of a car with a cop pacing before it; Paul's spoor, but still no warm body. Circling left again: he was just in time to hear Ringo scream "No!" as the hands let go and he fell—

POP!

and vanished!

Oh no! George cried belatedly, lunging—then Huh? as he pulled up short and landed on a branch, staring at the space which Ringo should have tumbled through. What the hell...?

The kids below made disappointed noises, not seeming particularly surprised. "Aw, shit," yelled the armless boy as his arms flew back to his body and reattached themselves, "he teleported. I forgot that's his Ability."

Okay, thought the shaken George, taking off before he was recognized. Okay, he teleported. But how'd you know he could? Did he know? And where'd he go? How am I gonna find him?

How was he going to find any of the others?

POP!

"Ahhhhhh!"

Thump! (Bouncebouncboun...)

Pain... softness… darkness.

From the air New Zork was New York, and John's stomach cramped with homesickness and bitter anger. It's not the magic that's got the strings, it's us! We're just fucking cosmic puppets—I quit. You hear me up there? I quit! So leave me alone! He flew to Central Park (a quick trip by air) and his home, the Dakota Building, to cloister himself away with Yoko. But of course she wasn't there. He hadn't even known her at the beginning of Beatlemania, much less been married to her and living in New York. Lonely, scared, and depressed, he soared off towards Harlem; its perpetual decay fit his mood perfectly.

Lost in self-pity, forcing down the paradoxical flight-ecstasy, he didn't notice some important differences between this Harlem and the one he knew until he found himself flying toward a giant rabbit on a roof.

Dirty white with one black arm, wearing a pair of shorts, the rabbit sat morosely with its chin in its paws and its ears drooped. Then it looked up and saw John. Its ears shot straight up, and it leaped to its feet waving and capering, beckoning him to come down.

This was the kind of fan John landed for! Fascinated out of his glooms, he dropped lightly to the roof. As he folded his wings, the giant rabbit bounded over and held out its paw, a furry parody of a hand, to be shaken. John extended his hand—

The rabbit's paw shimmered and filled with golden mesh. It flung the mesh at John, who, startled, threw up his hands, but too late. The mesh enveloped him and tightened, mashing his hands against his face. "Fuck!" he screamed, struggling uselessly; the mesh was damned strong.

The rabbit grinned with sharp incisors. "Gotcha, tweety."

It bundled John in its arms and hopped into the building, taking a flight of stairs at one leap. John screamed in its ears, but it ignored him and lippity-lopped down a urine-scented hall, kicked open the door at the end yelling "Yo, furs, look what I catched!"

Between his fingers John saw two other giant rabbits, a small lop-eared white one and a brown one, sitting in chairs and listening to Elvis on the radio. The brown one cocked his ears at the new arrivals. "Who that, Andry?" said the lop-eared one fearfully, turning off the radio.

"Lettuce brain!" John's captor poured him into a chair. "Ain'tcha been sniffin' the papers? Tweety here's wunna them Beagle boys, that John fudd. Cancha tell, with them wings?"

"Oh yeah?" The two rabbits got up and sniffed John all over with their wiggling pink noses. "Smells like water," the brown rabbit said.

"Whatcha gonna do with him?" asked the lop-eared rabbit.

Andry's tone became crafty. "C'mon in the feeder. We gotta thump."

Left alone, John struggled some more, but got nowhere. He summoned his water field and tried to push the mesh out with it, but the net was too close to his skin; the field phased right through it. Captured by giant rabbits! he thought bitterly. I'll probably laugh about this some day, in a million years or so.

The rabbits were conversing in peculiar high-pitched tones, though in English: "... gonna be terrorists like Saint Bugs!"

"But Andry, cops'll rescue him right back, we ain't got any kinda magic to stop 'em." This from the small lop-eared rabbit. "You can't net 'em all, and me 'n Guddy can't do nothin'."

"So what, Tod? Even if we only keep 'im a couple hours we'll still make our point. All we gotta do's get in the papers with our message."

"Which is?" the brown rabbit Guddy prompted.

"Equal rights for harveys, dumb bunny! We been second-class citizens too long!"

John could appreciate Andry's goal, but the rabbit's method stunk. He strained again; no go. Dammit, I'd have to be water myself to—

Splash!

"Hey, that tweety's makin' funny noises," said Guddy.

"Aw, your ear's lousy," Andry scoffed. "That was the bathtub downstairs overflowin' again."

John re-formed on the floor under the chair, so shaken that he lay there for a few minutes, trying to forget how it felt to be a puddle of water, arms and legs and head spreading over a wooden floor, soaking into it, dripping through cracks, evaporating.… If he hadn't had a similar experience under acid, he might have gone insane.

Which prompted the thought, after he could think coherently, that the Fans' reasons for choosing them had been sound. This whole damn trip's a trip, he growled to himself, crawling from under the chair. The net was fading away on the seat. He started towards a window.

"... in the trap for sure," the lop-eared Tod said tearfully.

"Listen to you!" Andry snapped—literally. Tod squeaked in pain. "You're actin' just like the furless 'spect ya to. Flopsy Mopsy! Gonna run away now? Look, furs, we can't let them fudds treat us like animals. We got just as much right to use their buses and drink from their fountains and gnaw in their restaurants as they do."

"We ain't gonna be animals when the war starts," Guddy said sourly. "Uh-uh, MacGregors gonna forget we cowards and throw us in the front lines so we can die to keep them alive."

John listened sympathetically. It was civil rights-cum-Vietnam all over again, and he wondered why a people who had cock's-combs and blue skin couldn't accept a slightly more radical mutation, and a cuddly one at that. I'd've jumped at the chance to have a bunny nanny for Sean. (What would they call it? Banny? Nunny?)

On the other hand, there was only one trivial difference between black and white, and what had that created? John stopped wondering.

He found he couldn't just leave. He wanted to help the rabbits—for selfish reasons if nothing else. John Lennon, rabbit-rouser! The Vaseline can wait, he decided, and opened the door into the rabbits' confab.

"Catch him, he loose!" Guddy shouted, his fur standing on end like a cat's.

Tod leaped backwards, crying "Don't hit me mister!"

Andry conjured up another net and hurled it at John, who was ready for it this time and snapped up his water field to bounce it off.

The three rabbits froze. "How you do that?" said Andry, a second net dangling from his paw. "I thought your Ability was your wings. And what's that funny thing on your chest?"

"My lucky charm." John squirted the net. "Put that thing down, I'm not escapin'. I wanna help you get your message across."

Andry hurriedly canceled the net.

"How you know about that?" asked Guddy suspiciously. "We used highspeech so's you couldn't hear us."

"I got good ears." John pulled up a chair and sat down straddling it backwards, steepled his fingers under his chin. "Look, you had the right ends, but your means really stank—"

"How many Abilities you got?" breathed Tod, all awe and twitching nose. "Are you the A-plus Plus?"

"Nah, I flunked." Why were these rabbits so impressed with his magic? Hadn't they grown up with similar stuff? "Come on, we need to discuss this. D'ye want rights or not?"

Slowly the rabbits came and crouched on the floor around him. They were so fluffy and innocent-looking that John felt as if he was about to tell them a story. "Anyway, there's a better, and more legal, way to do this. First we get as many rabbits—"

"Harveys," growled Andry.

"Sorry. We'll get as many harveys as possible, and then—"

"Mmmm..." Soft, so soft and silky against his skin... Ringo drowsily rubbed the blanket along his arms, twisted his feet in it. The fresh, almost forgotten smell of clean laundry; the rustle of the stiff pillowcase under his head… his eyes popped open. "Where am I?" He sat up to behold a vaguely familiar hotel room. John sat on another bed playing solitaire. His wings hung loosely down; they seemed wrong somehow. He had cut a shirt to accommodate his back and wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

John laid his cards down and grinned. "Right, tell us about it."

"Huh?" said Ringo. His head throbbed with bad memories. "What happened? Where are we?"

"Why, we're in Hell, lad." John waved his hand for emphasis. "Room 1232. Man, y'weren't half smashed when you popped in here, corn," he said admiringly. "Surprised y'could still 'port, the way y'passed out after. Those must've been some two hours!"

This was only adding to Ringo's confusion. He looked at the red flannel pajamas someone had dressed him in, then at a pad of paper on the nightstand: The Plaza on the letterhead. "How'd I get here?" he mumbled, putting his fingers on his brow. The last he remembered was staring down in horror at the armless boy.

"You 'ported in," John repeated, stealing a glance at his cards.

Ringo looked up. "I what?"

"Teleported. It's your Ability, remember? You've only been doin' it ten years."

"I teleported? Are you sure?" The snort Ringo got was answer enough. "That's a bit of all right!" He jumped out of bed to try this new toy. He closed his eyes, visualized an empty spot across the room, and willed himself over. Nothing happened. "It didn't work."

"Sorry, forgot to tell you. After y'popped in pissed Brian put a 'port damper on the room. Don't want y'comin' in like that again. Not durin' the day, any-"

"Brian?" Ringo gaped at him, and something clicked. "You're not my John!"

"Yes I am, didn't y'see the sign on me back, says `Property of Ringo Starr.'"

"No, I mean you're a Beagle, not a Beatle."

"Yeh, I'm the Eagle Beagle." Beagle John got up and pirouetted with his arms raised and his wings spread. "I'm poultry in motion!" Now Ringo knew why he looked wrong; his wingspan was only six feet or so, and he had neither the chest nor the hard muscle that the real John had.

Whirling around with a flourish, Beagle John pointed an accusing finger at Ringo. "What's a Beatle? You startin' a new group on me?"

Ringo explained his origin, his mission, his troubles outside.

Beagle John burst out laughing. "What a story! Writin' a book then? Better learn t'spell first."

"I'm not kidding!" Ringo pointed at his beard. "Couldn't grow this overnight, could I?"

"So you met someone who grew it on for you." Beagle John went to the dresser and began to pour himself a scotch and Coke.

"How the hell can I make you believe—" Ringo gave himself a mental kick in the ass (figuratively, not literally). "Here, can your Ringo do this?" He thought a can of Coke from the dresser into his hand.

All the color drained from Beagle John's face. The bottle of Scotch he held slipped from his fingers and bounced on the rug, but it was too empty to spill. "How—how? How the fuck did you do that?"

The degree of his fear surprised Ringo. "I told you I'm not the one you know," he said gently. "I'm not gonna hurt you or anything.…"

"Jesus, you weren't kiddin'," moaned Beagle John, snatching another bottle and taking a long swig. "And you're the A-plus Plus to boot..."

"The what?"

Beagle John drank again to calm himself, but his voice still shook as he explained. "Everybody's got one Ability, no one's ever had two. The first chap with two'll be the A-plus Plus, even if his Abilities are both F's. You're graded on how useful your magic is," he added. "Like, I'm an F. Fuckin' wings ain't good for nothin' but impressin' birds." He smiled wanly at his joke. "Most Abilities are crap. You—uh, my Ringo and the others got lucky, they all got stuff they can use. George is a werecat, Paul's got a cosmetic illusion, and you know what you got. They can go out," he sighed.

Beagle John shook his head. "Jesus, I don't believe this. Attack of the Ringo Monster from Outer Space!" He took another swig of alcohol. "For fuck's sake, don't tell anyone or you're for it. The Big Powers are racin' for the first A-plus Plus, and the rumor is they'll milk you for your sperm and artificially inseminate all the women with it."

Ringo pictured himself hooked up to a sperm-pumping machine, surrounded by thousands of big-nosed, blue-eyed telekinetic kids. "Lovely. No fear, I'm not gonna hang around. Eh, how long have I been here?" A clock on the nightstand said 3:31.

"You popped in at noon and did three hours healin' sleep Brian had you put in. You hit the bed hard." Beagle John gave Ringo an odd look. "There's a fake Paul been runnin' about, cops called with a daft story about him bein' A-plus Plus—he's yours, right?"

Ringo nodded distractedly. "Three hours! Shit! I've gotta find the others, they can't possibly know where I am." Ringo closed his eyes to see Paul—red-haired, laden with packages? That must be Beagle Paul. Where's mine? But he could only get the wrong one. Probably in a Protected place. On George he drew a total blank; neither real nor copy was himself, it seemed. At least I don't have to find me. Almost afraid to try John, he inhaled and.…

Superimposed on Beagle John but distinguishable, Ringo's John trotted down a sidewalk past shabby buildings, talking to someone. Ringo sighed in relief, expanded the scene to see where John was—and started to laugh.

"What're you doing?" Beagle John demanded. "Don't tell me you've got a third Ability!"

Ignoring Beagle John's questions, Ringo opened his eyes. "Okay, mate, don't know what you're doin', but here I come for it." He stripped off the jammies and donned his clothes, lying clean and pressed on a chair. With a cheery "Thanks, it's been fun, gotta go meet you," he started to the door.

Beagle John grabbed his arm. "Wait, you can't go out there, those kids'll tear you to bits! You haven't got a disguise or anything!"

"Kids?" And Ringo realized: the room was too quiet for even a normal New York hotel room, let alone one at the height of Beatle/Beaglemania.…

Beagle John took him to the window, drew the curtains, and threw it open. The sudden blast of sound nearly knocked them over as thousands of kids went loudly bananas at the appearance of their heroes.

Cursing, Beagle John slammed the window shut, and the noise vanished, leaving an eerie quiet as the kids frothed below. "They silenced the hotel yesterday. Thank God silence is commercially available."

Ringo backed away from the window. "I forgot," he whispered. "I didn't hear them.…"

I'm glad I'm not up there, thought Paul, standing on Central Park South a little ways up the street from the Plaza, watching the crowd. He was invisible, thanks to the flexible little illusion spell, which imitated empty space very nicely. (He could sort of see himself, though.) His only problem was avoiding collisions, as he did now, moving out of the way of two policemen who strolled over.

After fading out, he'd skulked around the neighborhood looking for the others, and luckily turned visible just as George passed overhead, also searching. They swapped stories, puzzled over Ringo, and reasoned that John had flown to the Dakota. It was decided that George, who still had the location bar, would drop the gold in his pocket off at the laundromat, then seek out the Vasyn, while Paul tried to find John. They could only hope that Ringo would find them. They arranged to meet at the Dakota by nightfall, and split up.

Paul snuck onto a subway (easy; leap! and through) and promptly got lost traveling to "Nanhattan"; he had to risk becoming visible to ask for a map. This would not turn invisible with him, so he sat in a corner of the car, hiding behind the map, until he reached 72nd Street.

The Dakota proved empty of significant bodies; he hung around being bored, then found himself attracted by the noise of the Beaglemaniacs at the Plaza. He thought it would be fun to stand nearby while they shrieked all unawares. Also, he hoped to see Beagle Paul. Scratching 'Wait for me here, Paul, C'hou' on the side of the Dakota, he hopped over.

So now Paul watched the crowd, enjoying the weak magic the kids gave off: light shows, billowing clouds, twitching antennae, excited shapeshifting into landbound forms. Should I risk going upstairs to meet myself? But remembering the laundromat, he figured that wasn't a good idea.

"Ready for secondary backup?" the tall cop near Paul asked the other in sweetly sarcastic tones.

The short cop grunted. "I hope to hell this don't overflow into the crowd. If this guy is everything the backseer said…. Dammit, I wish they could've got more than five A's to help."

"They're all that were available on short notice. I wish the backseer could've kept up on the guy. Jumping on the subway was brilliant; they'll never find the cars he rode." (Paul raised an eyebrow.)

"He's gotta come back here. Where else could he go? You seen these kids; if he visibled in public he'd be torn apart." (Paul raised both eyebrows.) "Unless he went rogue. This—" The short cop swept his arm to take in the Beaglemaniacs "—sure would drive me nuts."

The tall cop nodded, then grinned ruefully. "This'll break my daughter's heart. Once the Anglish government gets him that's the end of the group."

Right, thought Paul, sidling away from the cops, I do believe it's time I got back to the Dakota.

A young man wearing a Beagle wig backed into him. Paul slipped off the sidewalk into the gutter; all he needed was someone putting two and two together and raising a ruckus. But the young man merely turned around, saw Paul, and murmured "Sorry." Paul resolved to watch his—

Saw Paul?

The two men did simultaneous double takes and locked eyes, Beagle Wig staring both at Paul's face and his dishabille—for of course invisibility precluded the need for illusory clothes.

Recovering quickly, Paul winked at the young man, put his finger to his lips, and grimaced at the crowd.

Still rather taken aback, Beagle Wig nodded. Glancing about, he produced a pen and pad of paper, which he let fall in the gutter.

A small price to pay for his silence. Paul knelt, took the pen ever so gently and, with the young man's shadow hanging over him, scrawled his name. "If anyone comes I'll claim it's my Ability," Beagle Wig murmured.

Paul nodded, finished, released the pen, and stood up to find four more men circling him. All had crew cuts and the stern-jawed masculinity of Hitler Youth.

Beagle Wig had a shit-eating grin on his face. Flashing official documents, he said "You're under arrest by the Amerigan government for violations of the U.S. Ability Registration Act and the Anglo-Amerigan Shared Registration Act. And if you're thinking of resisting, just look over my shoulder and tell me how many of those kids you want to hurt."

The other men nodded; the hands of one began to crackle with electricity, while an oval force field appeared around another, and a third summoned up a Star Wars-type lightsaber.

Dazed by the thoroughness of this trap, Paul tried to play innocent. "Really, I think you've got the wrong chap—"

"No bullshit, mister," Beagle Wig said sharply. "You know why we want you. A-plus Plus! Come on." The Hitler Youth started to walk, Beagle Wig giving Paul a push to keep him moving in the middle of the circle. "And stay invisible till we get you out of sight of these kids."

Paul stopped, gave him a dazzling smile. "Oh, but why disappoint them?" Blink! Visible, and he leaped into the air, glowing and waving his arms, yelling "HEY KIDS! HERE I AM, COME GET ME! YEAH, YEAH, YEAH!"

With a great SHRIEK! the kids broke through the barricades like the Johnstown Flood and poured towards him and the five men.

Paul snapped invisible as he hit the street and hightailed it up Central Park South; what happened to the five men, especially Beagle Wig, he didn't care to think, but the noise was appalling. At a safe distance he looked back: kids surging in the street, screaming, crying, climbing on cars, beating on policemen. Suddenly a shiny oval thing spat out of the crowd and into the air like a watermelon seed; the Hitler Youth with the force field, face contorted in a shriek.

Offhand, Paul couldn't think of a more pleasant thing to have seen.

By pure luck Ringo had been looking at the crowd just as Paul appeared, and he whooped, pulling Beagle John to the window to watch the fun. "That's two!" he shouted. "I've gotta get down there, they must be meeting at the Dakota." Visualizing that building, he did a little dance when he found Paul's message. He ran to a closet and began pawing through it, calling to Beagle John "Come on, I need a disguise - "

A yell from the hall and a babble of voices, one shockingly familiar, froze him. He shared a glance with Beagle John as the noise continued:

"`Ere, lemme go! Don't y'recognize me, then?"

"Lissen, buddy, you picked the wrong time to try an' sneak in with that illusion, so why doncha just come along quiet.…"

"What illusion? D'ye think I'm Paul, then? Take me down a floor and I'll show you what me Ability is, I'd do it 'ere if you 'adn't turned a bleedin' 'port damper on, help!" Sounds of flailing body. "John, Paul, George, Brian, Derek, Mal, Neil, anyone!"

Beagle John turned an apologetic-but-amused face on Ringo, then removed his glasses, threw them on the bed, and went into the hall. Ringo just had time to leap into the bathroom. All he caught of Beagle John's greeting was "Right, what's all the—" before the two doors closed and the conversation was muffled. But he closed his eyes, and.…

Himself, beardless, rumpled, squirming in the grasp of two policemen stepping on a blond wig and baseball cap on the floor. Creepy! Beagle John, calmly assessing the situation. Brian Epstein, sending another chill down Ringo's back as he emerged chubby-faced and dapper from his room. Discussion; scornful looks at the bewildered Beagle Ringo, including a cool, close, squinting appraisal from Beagle John; a seemingly offhand remark by Beagle John, which produced a frantic checking of pockets by Beagle Ringo, and then his ID card; a general raising of eyebrows and glance toward the bedroom; and soon….

Pound-pound-pound! "Come out of there, whoever you are!" commanded Brian, with an accompanying growl of "Yeah!" from Beagle John.

Ringo opened the door. What else could he do?

He and his counterpart locked eyes immediately; one of the cops whistled in admiration. "That's some face job."

"Sure had ME fooled," Beagle John exclaimed with a wink. "Suppose I should'a been tipped off by the beard…."

"We were all of us fooled," Brian said, shaking with anger as he grabbed Ringo by the front of his shirt. "Do you know how much trouble you've caused us? Do you?" He almost slammed Ringo's head into the wall. "Because of you we put up the teleport damper and almost prevented Ringo from getting back! He could have been seriously injured! Are you associated with the fake Paul that's been gallivanting about? Are you? Come on, you little bastard, say something!"

Tongue-tied by this resurrection, Ringo couldn't say a word.

"Ya wanna press charges, Mr. Epstein?" asked the policeman who had whistled. Before Brian could reply, however, Beagle John said firmly "No. We don't."

"John, don't defend this man," Brian snapped, whirling around to glare at him and practically pulling Ringo to the floor. "He could go about claiming to be Ringo and cause untold havoc, especially since he's got the same Ability—"

"No harm done," Beagle John said in his most stubborn tone of voice. "He was tryin' to leave anyway. Besides," he added slyly, "you don't want this in the papers, do you? 'Impostor Arrested in Beagle Hotel Room'—every shapeshifter and illusionist'll try it."

"Mm.…" Brian pursed his lips in distaste, but his face relaxed somewhat. "Well, what do you think?" he asked Beagle Ringo.

"Ah, whatever John says," the Beagle drummer murmured, still quite fascinated with his double.

Who was, by the way, choking with his shirt twisted round his neck. He took advantage of Brian's improved mood to yank his shirt back and look injured; after all, he hadn't wanted to come to the Plaza.

"All right," Brian said grudgingly. "But we had better not see him again." To the policemen: "Please escort him out. Keep a low profile; things could get unpleasant if he were seen."

That wasn't so bad, Ringo realized; maybe the other's arrival had been lucky after all.

"Yessir. C'mon, you," and the two policemen linked arms with Ringo and all but carried him down the hall and into the stairwell.

"Ow, that hurts!" protested Ringo as they hustled down the steps.

"Yeah, yeah," said the cop who'd whistled. Neither man made the slightest effort to ease up on their grips.

"Hey, this guy's a teleporter," said the other cop. "That's how he got up there in the first place. Listen, you," he growled, "`port up there again and we'll charge you with Misuse of Ability."

Ringo was very tired of threats, of abuse, of bad breath in his face. "I can't," he muttered, "they put a damper up there, remember?"

"Ahh, shut up," said the cop. Ringo did, because he had a thought: they were below the twelfth floor now, away from the 'port damper. He closed his eyes and visualized the Dakota building, which was hard because he jiggled going down the steps, and once he had a suitable spot picked out he willed himself over. Nothing happened, except the cops yelled at him for becoming a dead weight.

So much for that supposed Ability. Fans probably stuck their fingers in, he thought sourly.

When they reached the first floor, the policemen hustled him to the delivery entrance and released him. "Okay, get lost," said one.

Ringo stared out at the street. Suddenly freedom wasn't such a good idea. "I can't go out there! If anyone sees me I'm dead!"

"That's your problem, buster. Get movin'!"

George impatiently preened his feathers—he was a pigeon—as he waited on the sidewalk in front of the Dakota building. He'd found the first bit of Vasyn! In a ridiculously convenient place, too, at least in terms of its proximity to the Dakota. With time to kill he'd planned to go hunting for John and Ringo, but dropped by the Dakota first to see if anyone was there, and found Paul's message. Since he didn't know where to start looking anyway, he decided to postpone the search until Paul's return. He had something interesting to show Paul anyway.

So he strutted about with his head bobbing back and forth and his neck flashing purple, listening to the traffic making no noise but that eerie quiet humming, watching with polarizing eyes the shadow of the sun creep across the sky, and always knowing which direction he faced. Really, pigeons had interesting senses. But he was dreadfully bored.

Suddenly something thudded heavily to the ground right next to him. Startled, George launched into the air and was halfway to the roof before he recovered his wits. Irritated, he flapped around the building to the drive…. nothing. However, as he swirled in for a landing, Paul popped into view, wearing outrageously fake illusory clothes. George could see through almost all of it. Paul looked around furtively, then crouched behind some trash cans (which were clean and empty, as befitted the posh neighborhood) and faded out.

George fluttered to the earth and *

nothing happened.

He stood very, very still, not wanting to admit that he'd made the attempt to change, and tried *

nothing happened.

Again!

Nothing, nothing!

Nothing nothing nothing nothing!

George screamed "Coo!" and hopped around madly, beating his wings. My magic died, I'm stuck, I'm stuck!

"George?" said the air around the trash cans. "Is that you?"

George collected himself enough to bob affirmatively.

"Can't you change back?"

"Oh!" George forced out of his inadequate throat, going into another fine freak-out.

"Oh my Lord...." Paul winked into view and held his hand out. Taking a deep breath to settle himself, George hopped on, crooked his feet around several of Paul's fingers, and fluttered his wings for balance as Paul stood up jerkily, lifting him to eye level. They stared at each other, Paul whispering "God, is this bizarre—I know it's you, but it's not. You're so small.…"

Tell me about it! George thought at him. Myself, change back to myself, goddamn it!

Paul chuckled nervously. "You could join Wings."

George puffed out his feathers and squawked angrily. Piss off! How'd you like to spend the rest of your life like this?

Easy enough for Paul to guess his thoughts. "Don't worry, man. We'll get you put to rights. There's lots of magic out there, especially in C'hou—" Then his eyes widened. "Oh dear.… have you found the Vasyn?"

It isn't easy for a man and a bird to share pained realization, but they managed it. "Ack!" cried George, sounding oddly human in his despair. How can I tell you where it is? I'll have to lead you, and he launched off Paul's hand and flew to the north end of the drive. Paul started to follow, but froze as a car stopped at the other end. A police car! He winked out immediately. George heard the car too, and as he flew back saw the door open and a man climb out, head and shoulders covered by a jacket.

"Now, wasn't this better than me gettin' caught by a reporter?" Ringo asked cheerfully. He was answered with a grunt.

The car roared away. Paul reappeared, though staying out of sight of the street; George settled on his shoulder.

"Can't George change back?" called Ringo as he hurried down, voice muffled by the jacket.

"Where the hell have you been?" Paul said by way of reply.

Ringo opened his mouth, and doubled over in hysterics as his relief at finding the other two and the craziness of the day hit him all at once. The jacket slid over his head and fell to the ground as he gasped out his story.

"Wild," said Paul. As Ringo got control of himself, wiping his eyes, Paul added, "Right, George found the first bit of Vasyn, I'll follow him to it and you wait here for John—"

Ringo burst out laughing again. "Oh, oh, that's the best yet! You gotta see him! He's, he's ha ha—he's leadin' a herd of giant rabbits into Central Park!"

"ALL WE ARE SAAAAY-ING," chanted the massed rabbits, "IS GIVE US OUR RIGHTS!"

John marched in front of the harveys, screaming the chorus and waving his arms like a conductor. At times he laughed, not at the strange chorus behind him, but from the thrill of hearing the song from so many throats, doing what it was meant to do (more or less).

"EVERYBODY'S TALKIN' 'BOUT BUGS AND HAZEL, FLOPSY MOPSY COTTONTAIL, PETER RABBIT, ROGER RABBIT, CAPTAIN CARROT, CUTEY BUNNY, THUNDER BUNNY, EASTER BUNNY, VELVETEEN! ALL WE ARE SAYING.…"

Oh, what a hectic few hours it had been gathering up rabbits, recruiting whole apartment buildings and emptying stores. With John's fame, and his and Andry's infectious enthusiasm, harveys drew to them like iron filings to a magnet. A furry rainbow, brown red black white grey, solid brindle mottled, straight-eared and lop, formed along the streets of Harvem and practiced the lyrics (supplied by the lop-eared Tod, who, for all his timidity, threw himself into the project with great energy). And off they went, making a peaceful ripple in the social structure! "... 'BOUT OSWALD RABBIT, FRITH AND FIVER, BR'ER RABBIT, MARCH HARE THUMPER, WHI-ITE RABBIT, CRUSADER RABBIT, ROBERT LAWSON, ROBERT LAWSON? ANDRY GUDDY TOD AND ME! ALL WE ARE SAYING.…"

Martin Luther Lennon!

The whole contingent was halfway across the Sheep Meadow when John stopped and spread his arms. Immediately the harveys flowed around him, encircled him with some feet to spare on either side, and swayed to the melody, as curious humans and policemen watched from a distance. Suddenly a great tide of humanity poured in from the south; the Beaglemaniacs, with typical fan radar, had discovered John's presence. Leery of the harveys, they did not attempt to penetrate the furry ranks, but ringed them and screamed, which spurred the harveys on to greater vocal efforts. Magic burst like fireworks here and there, and reporters prowled around it all, failing to interview 'maniacs and harveys, who respectively shrieked or sang into microphones.

The overall effect from above was that of a giant writhing bulls-eye with John as its center, and nasty thoughts crossed George's mind as he spiraled down. But he was in too foul a mood for hijinks or low comedy; his mission was to coax John into following him to the Dakota, and passing over the 'maniacs scared him to death. With vile imprecations he torpedoed down and flutter! landed on John's head.

"Hey!" John cried hoarsely. He batted at George, who had to hop back into the air to avoid being hit, and landed at John's feet. You idiot, it's me! He pecked at John's foot, which couldn't hurt him through the tennis shoes he now wore, and made unpigeonlike noises.

John stared mystified at this kamikaze pigeon, and then it hit him. "George?" Except that his voice was drowned out by the chaos around him. He knelt and repeated himself.

George nodded vigorously. Well, you're not completely thick. He motioned with his right wing and flapped into the air, making a feint towards the Dakota.

But when he circled back, John shook his head and shouted unintelligibly, indicating the rabbits with a sweep of his arm. George landed on him and heard "I'm not done here yet! GIVE THEM THEIR RIGHTS!"

"I think he wants to stay," reported Ringo as they sat behind the trash cans, him with the jacket over his head and Paul invisible.

Paul angrily bent a can lid double in his hands. "Stay? That silly sod! What's more important, a pack of rabbits or us?"

"Now George is back on his head, pullin' his hair. John's tryin' to knock him—that's queer. Now they're just standin' there. I—"

A flash of blue light, SPLANG! and the garbage cans clattered off in different directions. Acrid smells of ozone and hot metal filled the air, along with the command "Come out slowly or we'll fry your friend."

At the end of the drive where it sloped down from West 72nd Street stood three familiar men: Beagle Wig, minus the wig, wearing new clothes, and sporting a puffy black eye; the electricity-wielding man, who blew on his smoking finger and grinned unpleasantly; and the lightsaber man, though he didn't have his weapon conjured. The other end of the drive shimmered like a soap bubble; the force-field man had blocked it off completely. The fifth man was nowhere in sight.

Paul's first thought was How the hell did they find me?, a silly question in this magical city.

"Come on! Do you want your friend toasted?" ex-Beagle Wig yelled. Electricity raised his hand and pointed it at Ringo.

Disoriented by his startled re-entry into the dark jacket over his head, Ringo sat stiffly; if he heard the threat he gave no sign.

"You utter bastard," said Paul, wondering if he could leap between Ringo and a bolt of lightning. Probably not. He got up verrrry slowly. "If you hurt him I swear I'll kill you."

In a calmer tone ex-Beagle Wig said "All we want is you. Cooperate and no one gets hurt."

"Aw, shucks," said Electricity, shedding sparks from his fingertip, "cain't ah jus', you know, tickle the little feller?"

That Ringo heard. "FUCK YOU!"

"Hey!" Electricity hurtled backwards, soared across the street, scraped the top of a car, and slammed into a wall.

"He got past us!" cried Lightsaber, the rod of energy appearing in his hand. He spun round and fell into a fencing stance, shearing the tip off a fire hydrant and yelling "You can't escape!"

Well, how about that; Paul had thought all five could see him.

Ex-Beagle Wig grabbed Lightsaber's shoulders and swung him back around. "Stop it, you idiot, he didn't do that!"

"No, but he's doing this," Paul said cheerfully, having jumped up to them with a garbage can. He dropped it over ex-Beagle Wig's head and shoulders, crimped the edges around the man's body. Muffled curses came from the can as he staggered around, finally falling over with a clang.

In the drive behind him he heard a second clang; Ringo also doing his part in the cleaning up of New Zork. The kicking legs of the force field man protruded from an upright can.

"Yah!" Lightsaber was desperately slashing his weapon where he thought Paul might be, and scored in several places. It stung a little, like Paul had touched a hot pot.

"None of that now," Paul said, ducking under the beam, grabbing the man by the belt, and hanging him upside down on the spikes of the Dakota fence so he could stare into the little "moat" around the building.

Well, that was easy, Paul thought, wiping his hands. The street was definitely surreal; rolling can with legs, legs flailing over empty space, glowing blue man wobbling away from a wall... We did all this?

What would happen if they really cut loose?

A yell from the drive! He turned and saw the disappearing legs of the missing fifth man; disappearing as in going straight up, carrying the sick-looking Ringo by the armpits. The jacket fluttered down. They rose to just above the Dakota and then stopped, standing in the air. "GIVE UP OR I'LL DROP HIM!" the flying man shouted down.

Ringo felt little real fear as the ground shrank away; mostly he was tired of being jerked around, which seemed to happen everywhere he went in New Zork. Besides, he saw John flying toward him from the park, with George hitching a ride on his head.

"Try anything and I'll drop ya," warned Flyboy unnecessarily. He had eaten cheese recently. Then he saw John coming, and called "Attention, citizen! Alter your course; you're in danger in this airspace."

"I am?" squeaked John, who was in tremendously high spirits. "Oh, goody! I love danger, I screw it every night." He flew past, looped around, and came back. "Hullo Ring, gettin' up in the world I see."

Realizing they were related, Flyboy started moving away. "Help!" called Ringo.

"Oh, you're a baddie?" John easily caught up to Flyboy and grabbed him around the legs, making sure he had Ringo's legs as well. George fluttered off. Put him down or I'll rip your prick off, he said elegantly in their heads, swinging down to the vertical.

The man gasped and sank in the air before catching himself. "Are you an A-plus Plus too?"

No, I'm 4-F, can't draft me. John batted his eyelashes at the man. You know, I've never met a eunuch before.

The man landed them on Central Park West next to the Dakota and went to help his comrades, muttering "That résumé is going out tomorrow."

"Come on, mate," John urged in a hoarse voice after a hurried embrace, "we've got to get out of here, ninety million fans and blindly following rabbits are about to descend upon us."

"Since when could you read minds?" asked Ringo, so John laid a hand on his shoulder. I can do this with anything's got water in it, I found out when George landed on me, can we go now?

He took his hand off as George dropped from the sky to sit on his head, and Paul came hopping up, visible to complete the reunion. "Well, here we are in good shape... more or less," said Paul, looking at George, who was ruffled and woebegone. (From sitting on John's head he was also more than his share of damp.)

"He says you should go fuck yourself," John supplied helpfully. "Right, let's get on with it, George told me where the—oh, shit." He cocked a nervous ear towards the park. "Here they come!"

All that was visible from 73rd were some panting harveys, but even the others could hear the growing wave of humanity following them.

Paul snapped invisible. "Where do we go?"

"The Museum of Natural History!" John rasped, pointing uptown. The first rabbits crossed the street. Abruptly he scooped Ringo into his arms. "No offense, but we do run faster than you."

Ringo sighed but made no protest. Even the good guys used him as baggage; he couldn't fight destiny. Besides, John was quite correct.

They plunged ahead just feet before the nearest paw. George took the lead but had to stop and wait as traffic held up the others, who danced around impatiently and finally raced across anyway. Screeech HONK! "Fuck you!" shouted John, slapping his hand on the hood and evaporating all the water in the radiator in a cloud of steam.

West 74th—Paul nearly mowed a woman down because she moved unwittingly into his path. He had to throw himself into a wall, which cracked, and bounced off and snapped visible. The woman, who hadn't made a sound during his carom, shrieked in recognition as he passed; when the others swept by and Ringo's foot hit her in the face, she sank to the ground with a goofy smile, dabbing lovingly at the bruise.

West 75th—*ping* A human George, whooping in surprise and joy, dropped out of the sky, sent the location bar clanking on the sidewalk and twisted his ankle as he landed, didn't notice the pain as he cried "I did it! I'm me again!" He hugged himself, rubbed his arms and legs, and might have stayed there forever if John hadn't hauled him up. He almost fell over when he tried to put weight on the leg, John said "Carry you?" but George shook his head, *ping*, "I'm fine, I'm fine!" which he was now as he lurched forward, snatching up the location bar; and behind them most of the harveys had crossed the street, while the first wave of 'maniacs, exhausted but given new life by the sight of their heroes, flooded Central Park West, roaring.

West 76th—Every pedestrian saw what was coming, said "Yipe!" and dove for shelter.

West 77th—"Over there!" John yelled with the rags of his voice at Paul, who would have gone on to Harvem; it was also the last thing any of them could make audible, with the city screaming in their ears.

Through a tree-lined archway, up the broad walkway and steps, into the building—lovely silence! "We're poor," John croaked at the woman who took donations for entrance, and they blundered through the turnstile, fell panting against a display of an Indian canoe.

"There." George pointed at the first hallway. They would have rested, but hundreds of harveys were pressing their noses at the doors, so they continued on. Crates lined the left wall, and the right bore traces of an exhibit no longer up: MAN AND FAMILY, LIFE CYCLE, FETUS GROWTH. The others thought they would be poking among the crates, but George took them beyond into the Hall of Meteorites. They leaped into it, propelled by a great shriek from behind. It was a round room with a thirty-four ton meteorite in the center; George led them in a curve past lesser specimens, murals, and startled visitors, into the Hall of Minerals. This was dark, all pits, columns, glowing exhibit cases, and freestanding minerals, carpeted everywhere. The net effect was very peaceful, not that the four had time to appreciate it. They blundered past a display showing the nature of minerals, and George swung the location bar up to point at a huge column in the center of a railed pit. "Behind that!"

The sight of the bar's gem burning bright as a star quite went to Paul's head. He vaulted the carpeted railing, bounced down the sitting-steps to the column, glimpsed painstaking models of crystal structure—

A flash of pink! Paul cleared the other steps and railing in one mighty leap. Landing on the other side of the pit, he knocked a large piece of topaz off its pedestal. He didn't notice, for there IT was, in another pit: a pink granite twist of DNA, glittery with mica, marble-smooth, eye-level square base, twenty feet tall, jagged at the top—

Twenty feet? Paul made a strangled noise. He'd expected a six-foot chunk, not this statue-in-itself monstrosity! The Fans' mental picture hadn't been to scale at all. Suddenly feeling weak, he jumped into the pit, tore away the guard rail around the Vasyn, stared up and up and up.

Two and a half stories of solid rock.

The others came puffing down from the scenic route. "You can lift it, can't you?" George asked anxiously. An amazing noise was approaching from the Hall of Meteorites.

Paul shook himself out of his trance. "I dunno. Grab on, anyway."

They did him one better by climbing onto the base, for if he could lift it their added weight made little difference. He gulped, flexed his arms, gritted his teeth, hugged the base, and heaved.

He almost gave himself a hernia, and the damn thing didn't budge.

"Come on!" screamed Ringo as the rim of the pit grew black with singing bunnies.

Paul wrenched his back as he tried again. "I'm not strong enough any more!" he cried, picturing that wasteful shiny crater on the beach. If only the Fans had gotten him to New Zork sooner! Above him he heard George's faint, "... can think of something that strong, I will!" but Paul knew that it was his task, and he'd thrown away the power he'd been given to complete it. Desperately he yanked at the feeble strength left in his body, trying to concentrate it in his arms for one great heave—

"Hey?" Paul whispered as a dam burst inside. He glimpsed/touched something incomprehensibly vast that surrounded him, that he'd been connected to and never known about—

Then it came.

For a second he was blacker than the human eye could comprehend. He could never describe the feeling of that moment; only that he wanted it to last forever, though it terrified him beyond rational thought.

Before the others could blink, he was back to normal—visually, that is. The temperature in the Hall of Minerals had dropped noticeably. The others shouted questions and hurry-up's at him, but he didn't hear them, partially because the noise in the museum had grown impenetrable, but also because he was trying not to scream and shout and leap around and crush the stone between his hands into dust.

Oh, yes, the Vasyn. It wasn't so heavy. He lifted it.

An extraordinary shrinking feeling took hold of them all—

POP! They vanished.

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