They rather shakily got out of the terminal and John led the way down the street to a large building, The Reference. They entered.

Ringo had been picturing a kind of library, shelves packed with books, reading nooks, the smell of aged leather and a comforting glow from the lights above. This hardly met his description. It was a large building with a ceiling at about nine feet high. The walls were a sterile white and the place gave the impression of a hospital. Ringo surpressed a few bad memories of hospitals from his childhood, and reassured himself by vowing that if he saw one hypodermic needle, he was going to bolt. The room was missing the smell of disinfectants, and that did much to calm Ringo.

The ceiling itself appeared to glow with an intense light that annoyed his sight. The room was barren save rows of desks, along the walls and in various groups in the room on which were devices that resembled John's Porto. They were somewhat bulkier in thickness and plugged into the walls through cords. John led Ringo over to one of the screens, pulled up a chair on his left for Ringo, and sat in the chair directly in front of the keyboard. John set the Porto on the desk to his left so that Ringo could see it and typed.

NAME?

"Let's start with Paul... James Paul McCartney."

John typed in the word and hit "accept".

"Uh oh..."

DO YOU HAVE A PICTURE?

Ringo reached into his wallet and pulled out a picture he had of Paul, George and John.

John fed the picture into a slot on the computer, and directed that the name match the male on the far right of the picture. A new result came up, this one with an accopanying picture. The picture was Paul.

John reached up the screen, and, with a nod from Ringo, touched the word "Occupation". The screen flipped to another setting.

James Paul McCartney is currently a man of the business world. He operates "McCartney Tech.", and is at this point in time, the most financially secure man in the world, with his net worth about 90 million grahms. James McCartney was the first to create a working holoscreen that was space and cost efficient. Realizing that his discovery was of importance, he quickly copyrighted his invention and thus secured his future. He currently makes executive decisions for the company.

"That's all the information?" Ringo asked, rather surprised, "You'd think that they'd have more, especially for the rich. Getting him might be a slight problem..."

THEY DO HAVE EVERYONE IN THE WORLD HERE. YOU CAN'T EXPECT DETAILS. I'LL GET WHERE HE LIVES. John pressed the words "Place of Residence" and the screen changed again.

James McCartney currently resides in 1945 Broad Street, East Walking, America. His business address is 170 Cummans in the same state and country.

John pressed a button and a paper copy of the addresses came out of a slot in the top of the keyboard. He handed it to Ringo who folded it and put it in his pocket. John then changed the screen back to the main screen.

"George Harrison."

John typed in the name, designated that the name match the person on the far left of the picture that he had put into the screen, and again hit the "accept" button. A match for face and name came up.

George Harrison

John brought up the Occupation screen.

George Harrison is currently a talk show host on the popular television show "George!", broadcast on channel TTV. His talk show covers a wide range of controversial topics, from alien creatures to tax proposals.

Ringo started to laugh, trying to picture George proctoring a talk called "My ex-lover has been sleeping with my lost puppy dog's master!". John gave Ringo a strange look, and, rather than explain, Ringo stifled his laugh. John reverted his attention to the screen and pulled up George's address and printed it. Ringo put it into his pocket with the other.

"What do we do next?" Ringo asked.

EXEUNT.

"What?"

John grinned, TURN TAIL?

"Huh?"

REGROUP?

"Do you always talk like that?" Ringo gave John a strange look.

GO BACK TO RICH'S. He clarified, FOR ONE THING, WE'LL NEED A MAP.

"And then we'll start off."

SO ANXIOUS TO LEAVE ME NOW? John's face took on a rare, amused caste.

Ringo grinned, "Anything to get back to where George is quiet and John can't type. Yeah, I'd say that's about right."

John raised a brow. INTERESTING FELLOW.

Ringo shrugged off John's comment by walking out the door of the Reference.

John paused for a few moments, clearing up the screen, and then followed Ringo.

Ringo picked up a train of thought. The John here couldn't really be that different from the one in his world, could he? Really, how much could one person deviate from what he was supposed to be? Paul had always really been a business man. His life in this world wasn't really that far off from the real persona. George... George *could* have met someone when he was young that might have gotten him into television. Had John's mother not died? Was that why John was so different?

As Ringo started to think more and more in depth and, he slowed his walking and finally stopped... in the middle of the road.

He knew from the addresses that he was in America, but had it been created in a revolt? Was there even an England in this land? He'd never really found history to be interesting yet, it was beginning to seem so.

A car came down the road and swerved just in time to miss the oblivious Ringo.

Was there a point where this world's history diverged from his own? How much was the same?

Ringo failed to notice yet again that another car was heading for him, and this one didn't seem to be driven by such an alert person. The car swerved drunkenly down the street, headed straight for him. John stopped at the edge of the street--and then caught sight of Ringo, standing in the path of a car like a man too far into his mind to notice the real world.

RICH? John typed uneventfully. Ringo, of course, paid no attention.

The car was now only about 15 feet away.

14

13

Ringo didn't sense the incoming danger.

12

11

RICH? John pressed a button and the keyboard beeped. Ringo didn't hear.

10

John closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. Then he yelled.

Or tried to.

Nothing came out.

9

John cleared his throat and tried again. This time it worked.

"Rich!"

Ringo looked up at the sound of the voice, snapped away from his self absorbed mind, saw the car

... and froze.

8

John dropped the Porto, and tensed up.

7

He pushed one foot off of the pavement and started sprinting towards Ringo.

6

5

John's mind was racing, but only one thought managed to come out of his head. It came in the form of a grisly picture. John ran faster.

4

3

John slammed into Ringo, half carrying him into the air and pushing both of them onto the safety of the sidewalk. Ringo fell down easily, into a sitting position, and John, still carried by his inertia, tripped over the raised edge of the sidewalk, put his hands out in front of him to stop the fall and landed.

Hard.

There was a sickening crunch.

Ringo immediately reacted, and got over to John.

"John?! Are you alright?"

John let out a muffled groan and rolled over onto his back, his face contorted with pain, holding his right arm. His hand was hanging at a ninety degree angle to his arm, and Ringo could see the bone protruding from his wrist. Ringo winced at the sight, and averted his eyes. John looked straight up, also pointedly avoiding looking at his own arm. His eyes searched until they found Ringo's face.

"Is... " He drew in a sharp breath," Is it bad?"

"Where can I call? Is there an ambulance? A hospital? Where?"

"Get the-- Porto."

"Are you sure that I should leave yo-"

"Now!" John hissed through clenched teeth.

Ringo dashed crossed the street and retrieved the discarded machine. Back at John's side, his eyes darted despairingly from one button to another, not recognizing any.

"Which one?" he asked, impatient.

John attempted to point, then his face screwed up as his entire body contracted in pain. A long minute later, he was able to gasp out words.

"Top-- left-- corner."

Ringo pressed a button marked with a red cross.

"Now what?" He tossed the Porto onto the pavement, eyes wide with concern for John.

"Wait."

The time that the ambulance took to get there could only have been, at most, one minute, but for the two, it seemed all eternity and a day. It seemed as though time itself has slowed down, just to torment them, that seconds slowed and stopped, waiting. At last, ever so long at last, the sirens could be heard, and a large white van wheel-lessly pulled up.

Two men in light blue uniforms, carrying a stretcher, walked out. They picked up John, who was wincing at every movement of his arm, and placed him on it. Then, without a word, they took him into the back of the van. Ringo followed, vowing that he was not going to get separated from John. The look of determination on his face must have convinced the men, because none of them challenged Ringo's presence. They placed John on a raised table, and three men stood, one on each of three sides of the table, inviting Ringo to stand by John's head.

He caught a look in John's eye, asking him, pleading with him to stay where he was. A scared look. A look that the real John would never have let anyone see. Ringo found himself trying to talk to John, silently, to calm him down without saying anything. John turned his head to better see Ringo.

"Try to keep him still." One of the men spoke up.

"He fell," Ringo said, his gaze not moving from John's eyes.

"We know," Another of the men spoke up.

There was a sound of beeping, and one of the men started talking into a radio, apparently giving a report on John's condition.

"--One arm broken. Right radius extruding, about a third inch from the wrist. Pulse rate appears to be normal. Blood pressure 120/80--"

"Your friend... What's his name?" One of the uniformed men spoke to Ringo.

Ringo looked up, breaking John's gaze, and John turned his head aside, exhausted from trying to surpress the pain.

"John...John Lennon."

"John," the man talked to John, and he directed his gaze at him, "Can you feel your arm?"

But, before John could answer, another man spoke up.

"We're there. Let's get this fellow in."

What followed was a whirlwind of activity that blew John into the hospital, separated and left Ringo standing, waiting in the reception area. Seconds grew into minutes, and minutes into hours. Ringo restlessly thumbed through old magazines in the waiting room. Was John all right? If only someone could tell him something. At long last, a nurse came into the room and told Ringo that he could see John. She led him down a corridor to a room, in which he found a pale John. He had a large cast on his right arm, which was suspended by a sling around his neck. Other than his loss of color, he was doing fine. The doctor explained that he'd have to stay there over night, just so that they could make sure the bone was setting properly. Ringo was offered the option to stay with John, and he took it. The doctor and nurse left.

"How's your arm?" Ringo looked it over.

"Broken," John answered soberly.

"Are you drugged?"

"Drugged? You think this is the twenties? Of course not."

"Then what--"

"Pain killer."

"Oh," Ringo lapsed into silence, not bothering to argue that pain killer *was* drugs. Ringo walked over to sit on a chair and encountered an object that he had placed on the chair.

It was the Porto, which he had picked up before they left for the ambulance.

"I--" Ringo paused, turned his back to John, and looked at the Porto. He fingered it for a moment, the device would only bring John more pain, if he really was as a devout man as he appeared. Ringo paused a second, head slightly lowered, pondering John, and thanking whatever ruled the universe for sending him. Then he tossed it into a trash barrel in the room, out of John's sight.

Ringo made small talk with John for about an hour, until five, when an attendant brought in dinner for the both of them. Afterwards, Ringo told John an interesting story, thus to pass the time. It was a story about an ambitious rock band who started out in a little town called Liverpool and grew up to be the most famous people in the planet. How their fame trapped them. How they couldn't leave the house for fear of fans. How they finally started to break up. Ringo told everything as if it were just a story, a book he had read, a play he had watched, but not gotten a part in, and never mentioned that it was true. He wasn't quite sure why he left out that he himself was a character in the story he was telling, but it just seemed right. The story seemed to sound better when someone thought it was fiction. Soon after Ringo finished his "tale", a doctor came in and told them that John needed to sleep. Ringo decided to spend the night in the waiting room. The doctor ushered him out, gave John another pain killer, and left him for the night.

Ringo soon fell asleep in the waiting room, on one of the sofas. John however lay awake long into the night. Now that his body was resting his mind started to wake up.

What had he just done? Broken a vow of silence which he had taken before God? But if he hadn't... Ringo might have been killed! Common sense argued with his devotion. What was more important, a vow, or a man's life? A life, yelled half of his mind. Life is vital. If he hadn't broken his vow of silence, then it would have been almost murder. Besides, maybe that was what God had wanted. Perhaps that was why it had happened. John shook his head, clearing it of his unhappy thoughts.

Another angle approached. Maybe it was a test. But if it was... had he failed... or passed? Was it intended to show that it was not the role of a missionary to be silent? Or was it to show that staying on the right path is hard. To show that sometimes you had to let evil happen to save yourself. John frowned. God wouldn't do that. God wouldn't put a man's life on the line to test and see if he would stay true to some vow. Not the real God.

A small voice in his head spoke up. What if there is no real God? What if this is all some cosmic joke? What if he was being foolish even losing sleep over it? What if life was controlled by coincidence? What if this life was all there was?

John spit onto the floor, trying to clear his mouth, and his mind of his thought. He finally collected an answer to his mind's question. If there's no God... then there's no point of existence. And I *am* being foolish. So be it. If believing in God is making a fool of myself, then I'll entertain the world with my antics. John closed his eyes, his mind finally resting. He prayed, hoping that God could forgive him, knowing that he didn't deserve it. John finally started to drift off, and just as he was falling asleep, a line from a storybook he had read, long, long ago echoed in his head.

The world goes not well, but the kingdom comes.