While John and Ringo rode home, another scene took place, in East Walking, home of some of the most famous people, and most well known studios. George Harrison, world famous host of the hit talk show "George!", sat in his dressing room. He tapped his fingers against the tabletop in impatience.

"What does a man have to do to get a decent drink around here?!" He yelled iritably out his door, "C'mon people!!"

Ringo would have quite gone into shock had he witnessed the manner and tone of the friend that he knew to be slightly under spoken. A crewmember quite sprinted into George's dressing room with his drink.

"I'm sorry sir," the tone of the crewmember was an annoying, whining tone, as of someone groveling. George snorted in disgust. Sure, he was a great person, but did everyone else have to seem so utterly pathetic? George shrugged mentally, and dismissed the distressed crew member with a wave of his hand. He sipped his drink. Yes, it was good to be famous.

George grabbed a remote and pushed a button. The holoscreen on the wall opposite him flipped on. The picture was of some woman crying because her husband had been killed. He felt a flash of pity for her, but stifled it, with a slightly bitter laugh. In his line of work, one couldn't afford to feel sorry for people. After all, if he started to feel sorry for people, what could he say on his show? You had to step on a couple people to get as high up as he was. It was sad, but a fact of show biz. George flipped the channel to a news program. It was nice to be aware of what other famous people were up to. The holoscreen started on some long description of the latest string of crimes that "Macca" had been behind. George found this far from interesting. "Macca" wasn't famous. He was notorious. That was a different thing entirely. He flipped the channel again.

* * *

After John and Ringo had gotten back to Rich's house, John went to get a map from Rich's room, and Ringo turned on the news channel. He watched the end of a report on an accident that had killed a man. It was kind of depressing, and Ringo was just about to turn the screen off when the show changed topics.

"--And on a similar note, the criminal fugitive "Macca" is still out there. The name "Macca" started showing up a few years ago, involved in low key crimes, but only recently has the name become a household word. It would appear that these new crimes are being committed by a copy cat criminal, but authorities appear to believe that the perpetrator is one and the same. It has been determined that "Macca" is rather the head of a crime organization. Some of his henchmen have been apprehended, but the police have said that the men they have taken into custody are either unable, or unwilling to give any information. "Macca" has been the cause of three deaths as of yet, and if he is not apprehended, more are sure to follow. More on this story later in the hour."

Ringo didn't wait for the rest of the news story, but flipped the screen off, slightly bemused.

Macca. It was kind of creepy. Macca was, of course, Paul's nick name, but to see that name attached to a notorious criminal gave reason for pause. At least, Ringo thought, it *wasn't* Paul. He knew that Paul was a businessman. Though, he reasoned laughingly, businessmen were similar to gangsters in many ways. Ringo grinned. Still, he didn't particularly care to meet Paul's nickname sake, in this crazy world.

He got up and went to Rich's room, where John sat on the floor, surrounded by papers.

"Hey John, have you found the map yet?" Ringo asked, casually.

John didn't respond for a moment, he was deep in thought, reading a bunch of rather crumpled papers.

"John?"

"Hmm?" John looked up, "Oh. Yes, I found it..." he held up a map, "I know how to get there now. The trash can fell over as I was leaving. I started to pick it up but--"

John's eyes strayed back to the paper he was holding, and Ringo picked up a similar one from the floor. He read it.

"Good stuff," Ringo put down the paper, "Rich's?"

"Yes," John replied, "It's odd but I feel... like Rich is dead. I mean, I know he's got to be fine... somewhere, but it feels so odd that he's not here, now. Odd is not even enough word for it, but I'm sure you know what I mean. It's so strange to see him--you standing there, and yet I know it's not him."

Ringo sighed, "The only way to fix that is to get me back. Which means that we'll have to go and find George, and then James. We'd best get started."

* * *

"Another dimension traveler? Go on, wait over there," the scout for the "George!" show motioned for Ringo and John to stand over by the wall. Ringo started to walk over there, then hesitated.

The other people standing there included a man wearing a suit that looked as if it was made of mirrors, a woman with her body painted green wearing a two piece bathing suit which looked as though it had been made of tin foil, and a man with multicolored hair and multiple body piercing, wearing a hat with antenna.

Ringo shrugged and walked over to the wall. He'd seen stranger things.

For John however, it was a different matter. He balked.

"Ringo, I think that I'm going to wait over here. I can not go on this show," John said.

Ringo shrugged again. John wouldn't really have been much help getting on the show anyhow, since odds were that he wouldn't lie, wouldn't make the story a bit more interesting, or associate with any of the other "aliens". He had a pretty good chance to get in. Of course, people accepted readily the more-- Ringo glanced over at his more "interestingly" attired fellow applicants-- acceptable aliens. Ringo paused at his last thought, and grinned. So this is what it felt like to be an alien. You would think the experience would be more... exciting.

"Next," the man ushered in the next applicants, which happened to be the group Ringo was in. They went into a small room, with four chairs and a desk in it. It was small, but well lit and just as formal as any room has a right to be. The man walked to the other side of the desk and sat down.

"Names?" He took out a small pad of paper and a pen and prepared to write down the names.

"Zandre, priestess of Algar," the green woman in the tin foil bathing suit said haughtily.

"Rubinss," the man dressed in the mirror suit, informed him, "of Cathe Sithe, quadrent seven."

"Klimtox," the man with the rainbow hair stated, "High chief and pilot of Calandra, qint planet from the Garth star."

Ringo paused, then spoke, rather quietly, "Ringo Starr..." he stalled," drummer of the Beatles. I'm from Liverpool, England."

* * *

Ringo and John sat in the reception area. Ringo had finished his interview, but he was really uncertain whether he would make the cut for the show. He had no idea what kind of show "George!" was, except that it was popular, and a lot like most American talk shows he had seen. Unfortunately, the number of American talk shows that Ringo had watched were in the single digit numbers. The only detail he could remember was that they liked to talk about sex. Needless to say, the detail wasn't helpful.

He had thought about making an interesting lie to tell the interviewer, but he had declined, fearing that he'd forget his original lie later. He had told only the truth. Not that it would really have been that different if he had lied. Still, he'd kept the story simple. He was in a rock band (had these people even heard of rock music?!) and got sent here, accidentally, against his will. He had to get the members of his band back together to send himself home. The members were James Paul McCartney, John Lennon, and George Harrison. Ringo sighed, he wasn't sure if the story was interesting enough to warrant an appearance on the show. It certainly sounded odd enough from his end.

The interviewer walked in, and a slight hush fell over the room. The man walked over to the girl in the tin foil bikini and then turned to Ringo.

"You two are on," he said.

* * *

James McCartney tossed himself down on the couch in his lavish house on Broad Street, East Walking. He was young for such business power as he had, and he wore the authority well. There was a weighted look to his eyes, as of someone who knew just what he was about and how to do it. James was cool. That was what he did, that was what he was. To look at him, you would see a man who had it all, and used it well. But that was the public James. The perky, alert, aware business man faded when he reached his abode. James often found himself laughing at what other people thought of him. They didn't know him. Not at all. No one did. No one had ever really tried.

James turned on his holo screen, and flipped the channel to "George!", a show which he had recently bought. He watched intently, sensing the ratings go up as the show progressed.

James smirked slightly at the characters on the screen. A woman who was sent to this world to find her pet lizard, an inter dimensional traveler who had to get together the members of his band in an alternate world to be sent back... Odd story. James grinned as his name was mentioned as one the 'band' members. This was just another nut that wanted some of his fame. He flipped the channel.

"--and, the cover story. Who is "Macca" and what is being done to stop him? We'll cover the latest development. The police have gotten a lead from one of his accomplices, and have decided to take into custody the suspect, millionaire business man Jame--"

James flipped off the television, in an abrupt, motion. There was a knock on the door. James looked over to the identifier on the side of the door.

POLICE.

"Shit," James said, jumping up carefully. He sprinted over, grabbed his coat, a wallet full of cash that he kept for just this occasion, and ran out the back door. He jumped into a small hover bike. James had known this was bound to happen, they'd find out sooner or later, but he hadn't thought it could possibly happen so soon. He felt panic starting to spread through his body. They'd be after him soon. And everyone knew his face. Damn his fame!

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