"Good dog..." Ringo slowly edged up the back of the sofa while still trying to seem friendly. The dog sniffed the air for a second and then barred it's teeth and Ringo brought his legs up to a kneeling position on the top of the sofa, "Nice dog..." He put out his hands in a non-threatening manner. The dog barked. The sofa took this inopportune moment to capsize itself. Ringo got out from under it and ran out of the room and into the first room that had a door, slamming it closed behind him. He waited a second and heard the a thump as the dog braked against the door. There was a woof and a scratching sound for a couple of seconds, and a doggish sigh followed, with a thump that made the door shake a little. Though he was unable to see the outside of the door, it was easy to guess that the dog was lying there.

Suddenly Ringo noticed something, "I don't have a--" Ringo shook off the thought, "that was a nasty trick of Jo--" He caught himself again and stopped.

"This is nuts....just insane...." Giving up on his futile train of thought, Ringo looked around the room. There was a small bookshelf in the corner, filled to the utmost capacity with books. On the opposite side of the room lay a night stand with a lamp on it, next to the night stand was a bed with a shelf built into the headboard and covered with a blue coverlet, neatly made. Parallel to the bed was a window with the curtains open.

Feeling self conscious, Ringo walked over to close the curtains, but stopped as he viewed what lay behind them.

It was that skyline again, the futuristic buildings, the transparent elevators, the floating cars. Ringo put his hand over his eyes and closed them tightly, praying that everything would be normal when he looked again, or at least have changed in the direction of normal. He opened his eyes.

Everything was the same. Ringo closed the curtains.

He couldn't go on like that, that crazy way of thinking, jerking his mind back and forth between conclusions... he was going to have to come to terms with whatever had happened, and he'd better do it soon. Ringo sat on the bed.

"This isn't some joke...Couldn't be---too elaborate. It's something bigger than that," he laughed, "it had better be something bigger!" Ringo sobered, "But I have no clue what it could be..." Ringo collapsed back onto the bed, and banged his head on the headboard. A book fell down and hit him in the face.

"What the..." Ringo sat up, rubbing his head, and then trailed off, looking at the book. There was an inscription on the front that stated simply "Journal." Interested, Ringo opened the book. The text was handwritten ... in his own writing. Ringo started to read.

June 10, 1961

I'm making it on my own now. Out on the road, away from home, making my own name! Still, it's kind of lonely going it alone. So lonely that I'm actually writing a journal! That's something I never thought I'd do, but Clio always said that my writing was one of the best things about me ... it seems to me the ONLY good thing. Clio...man, I wish she was here...I miss her so much... Anyhow I've got enough from mum so that I can get a house, not a great one, it's kind of old fashioned, but it was my favourite of the ones I could afford. Just wait until I make it big! Then I'll get a new one, one of the kind that they're building now instead of this old house!

The entry ended, and Ringo turned the page.

June 20, 1961

Lucky I bought the house straight up, instead of on credit, else I'd be out by now. Jobs are so hard to get! They expect me to have done that collage/school crap. Misery man, sheer misery. Life is goin down the toilet. On top of that, every one's out to scrap my book! I haven't a friend in this place, not even a girl! Well, not usually. Last night I found this girl who couldn't talk American, so I got her to come back here and then--

Ringo slammed the book shut, suddenly self-conscious. He was reading someone's diary! But whose? He turned to the front page, which he had skipped over before.

To Rich Starkey,

Write something honey!
With Love,
Clio

To Rich? It certainly wasn't him! But it was someone with his name...and his handwriting. Ringo turned the page to see if there was any writing on the back, and a photo fluttered to the bed. The guy had his face too! It was a picture of him, a few years younger, seated next to an attractive smallish blonde at kitchen table.

Ringo racked his mind for an explanation. There had to be one, at least one, maybe more. It wasn't that he was ruling out his earlier suspicion, that it was a dream, but he was certain that there had to be a better explanation. Well, just assume this wasn't a dream. Say that this was reality. If it was, then a heck of a lot had changed. Or maybe it hadn't! What if he had changed?

That would explain a lot of things. What if he had, somehow, crossed into another--Ringo searched his mind for the right word--world? Dimensions? If there had been a rip... a hole, then could he have ... tripped through into this place? Tripping through holes into other dimensions? Ringo's thoughts were starting to run like a bad sci/fi novel, but it was making more and more sense. Of course at this point, any notion that entered his head would have seemed sensible. But if this was another world...then that would explain that...thing...that had happened before he passed out. It would also explain the strange surroundings the way John had been acting, and the dog. The dog...the dog had known that he wasn't in the right place. This was almost to wild for him to swallow, but Ringo tried, and was pretty close to successful.

He got up and looked out the window, "So this is another world," Ringo chuckled to himself, "not quite as strange as I'd have thought. Where's Rich? He's about to get the surprise of his life!" Ringo walked over to the door and opened it. The dog looked up from his post at the door and growled. Ringo slammed the door. This was a problem. He spied the book on the bed. And there was the answer. The dog's name had to be in there somewhere. Ringo sat on the bed and opened the book, picking up the entry after where he had left off.

July 1, 1961

I finally got a job. It's not what I'd like to do, but it'll do for now. Just until one of my books sells. I got a letter from Clio. She said that she'd be over for the holidays. She's just the girl for me. I guess that living without her has shown me that. No one else means anything anymore. So I've gotten a ring. (At least my job did SOME good.) I've never been this nervous in my whole life, and I won't even ask her for another 5 months! Still she's worth the worry. I have to ask her in person, but I've still got to write her back...

Ringo turned the page again. There wasn't another entry on the next page, but a piece of paper stapled onto it. Ringo unfolded the paper.

July 7, 1961

Dear Richard,

It breaks my heart to tell you this sad news, but I fear you would not learn of it otherwise. Clio passed on yesterday. She was caught in the crossfire of a gang fight. Son, I know that this is terrible news, and what an impact it must have on you, since you were friends and all.

"The poor guy, and just when he was about to propose..." Ringo said aloud.

Before she died, Clio asked for you to take care of Mozart for her. I know that you're busy with your job, and how hard it is to get back home for such dismal things as funerals. Harry will fly Mozart over on the tenth. Remember that I'm always here for you. Wire me when you get a chance. It's such a tragedy, she was so young, and we all loved her so much.

Love and best wishes,

Your mum, Elsie

Ringo closed the book, suddenly not so eager to read the rest of the journal. The poor lad. That girl was probably blonde in the photo. Mozart, could that have been the name of the dog? Awfully strange name if it was. He put the book back on the top of the headboard and looked out the window trying to shake off the depressing feeling he had gotten from reading the letter. The sun was starting to set, and such a real thing, mixed with the strange horizon it sunk into created a kind of bizarre landscape. The window was offering no comfort. Ringo opened the door, and greeted the large German shepherd with a familiar tone.

"Hey Mozart! Good dog." Ringo patted the dog on the head and walked by. The dog cocked it's head, and then slowly began to wag it's tail then followed Ringo into the living room.

"Can't leave this a mess then, can we?" Ringo righted the toppled sofa he had left in the living room, "When's he usually get back, Mo?" He asked the dog.

He wouldn't have been entirely surprised if Mozart were to answer, the way his day had been going, but the dog remained silent.

Ringo sat down in a chair in the corner. It had been one heck of a day and now...now he had no one to tell of his theory. Ringo looked out the window. It was getting darker, and he noticed that the lights in the house were on, though he hadn't touched a switch. Rich wasn't home... what if the same thing had happened to Rich? What if he had ... tripped ... into Studio One, when the guys were singing? Would he have been able to figure out what had--

There was a knock on the door.

--or maybe Rich hadn't tripped anywhere....Ringo got up to answer the door. He peeked out a window. But he was not greeted by a replica of him image. It was John... or at least, the John from this world ... which happened to look exactly the same as the original.

Ringo opened the door and ushered John in.

"We've got a lot to talk about man..."

Onward Chapter 4

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