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Paul was glad that he wasn't claustrophobic as he sat on the floor of the elevator, leaning his head against the wall. He had closed his eyes and was dozing lightly while he waited patiently for the technicians to finish repairing whatever faults had caused the elevator to stop. He had worked in buildings listed with the National Trust before - in fact, he lived in one - and was all too familiar with the way they sometimes behaved.

All he could do was to wait patiently, and he had learned to do that many years before. A trick he had not yet learned, however, was not thinking of Linda. He had borne her death stoically, ignoring the pain as best he could, but it had not been easy. It had been a couple of years since his wife had died, and it still hurt. Great Britain had the best physicians and medical knowledge that a country could have, and yet it was not enough.

His fingers twitched as Linda crossed his mind once more, aching to wrap themselves around a guitar, or to dance across the keyboard of his favourite upright piano - the one which bore the sole reminder of his occasionally dissolute youth. Or, at least, the dissolute youths who had been his friends whilst he had been at University. The younger sons of the aristocracy, whilst their older brothers had been at Ciren, had been partiers. These days, they made up the body of the useful people who kept the country running properly - and they all had their quiet, efficient servants who did things the way they were supposed to. Or, at least, the way Sir Paul McCartney thought they were supposed to.

A slight smile crept across his face as he remembered them. His old friends had been delighted to accept the ex-civil servants their old mate Sir Paul had recommended to them as their retainers and secretaries. His old friends accepted their advice, and grew wealthy. So did Sir Paul. The power at his command was the one comfort he had left, now that his wife was dead.

He opened his eyes again at the sound of scrabbling beneath the hatch, and climbed to his feet. The hatch opened, and the Tech who had earlier identified herself as Sammi climbed in. "We'll soon have you out of here, Sir," she said with a faint smile as she pulled her bag of tricks up into the elevator. "Power has been restored to the rest of the complex - there's just one last wiring fault to the elevator to repair before we can let it move again."

She opened her bag and pulled out a short rod with a hook on the end. Paul wondered how she was going to get up to the roof, where the wiring was, although her lithe and athletic body suggested that she wouldn't have too many problems. She reached up with the rod and unhooked the hatch in the ceiling. As it swung open, she put the rod back in her bag.

She gathered herself for a leap, and, concentrating, was soon pulling herself upwards with an ease that Sir Paul could not help but admire. She had a wonderful body, and he wondered if she would be as athletic and adventurous as she seemed to be in bed. "Why the hell you won't let us rip the wiring out and start again from scratch beats me," Sammi grumbled to Sir Paul as she hoisted herself up onto the roof of the elevator.

Sir Paul shrugged. "I'm not the person you need to convince," he said. "It's the National Trust who need convincing."

With a grunt, she disappeared through the roof, and then poked her head back down into the elevator again. "You're the head of the Civil Service. Can't you order them to let us do it, or something?"

"The National Trust is an apolitical body, run by a group of elected citizens. It has nothing to do with the Civil Service."

She frowned. "But this installation is top secret! I thought it was out of the hands of the National Trust."

"We're only renting it from them," he replied as she pulled her head back up again. "Their rules still apply."

"Bugger," she said. Paul couldn't be certain whether she was talking about the state of the wiring on top of the elevator, or the somewhat torturous rules concerning the use of properties listed with the National Trust. Paul himself couldn't quite figure out just what surreal sequence of events had lead to wiring being listed with them in the first place. There had to have been some fairly heavy politics involved - there invariably was in cases like this. Goodness only knew what the original intent had been.

The sounds of Sammi moving around on top of the elevator ceased for several long moments. Then, finally, he heard her say, "I'm going to kill bloody Jack Henderfield."

"Oh?" Paul asked, his curiosity overcoming his better judgement. "Why's that?"

She didn't answer him - not that he had really expected an answer - but he did hear a series of sounds that were suspiciously like the sound you heard when somebody was cursing under their breath. She poked her head back through. "Could you pass me up my bag, please?" she asked.

Paul looked around and spotted the bag sitting on the ground near his feet. He picked it up and passed it up through the hatch to her. This was followed by the sound of rustling. "Stand aside," she advised him, and he was forced to jump aside to avoid an avalanche of empty crisp packets, torn chocolate bar wrappings, apple cores, and assorted other detritus. The mess looked unpleasant, and smelled worse. Then, he heard the sound of a tool being used, and she dropped back down through the hatch again, grumbling to herself.

"I'll kill him," she told Paul, before getting her radio out again. "I've located and repaired the fault in the elevator," she said, and waited.

"Acknowledged. Returning power to the elevator now."

The lights in the elevator came on, and it started moving. Seconds later, it stopped on the floor that Sir Paul had wanted, and the doors slid silently open. On the other side, Sir Richard was waiting for him, standing firm with his hands clasped behind his back, a slight smile on his face. "Feeling alright?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

"Fine," Sir Paul replied, knowing that his friend didn't expect any other response.

They moved down the corridor towards Sir Richard's office. "I've had the canteen put together some breakfast for us," Sir Richard said. "It's a bit late for us to go anywhere now."

Sir Paul nodded, and Sir Richard fell silent. Sir Paul had always felt slightly uncomfortable in this place, knowing what they were looking for, and at. It was nice to know that he would have been successful even without the head start he'd got in life, but the thought of actually making music for a living was very disconcerting. He knew that his alternate self was probably very good at what he did for a living, and deserved his popularity, but his music was not something he wanted the world to know about.

"How's the project going?" he asked.

"Pretty good," Sir Richard replied. "We've managed to get some integrated audiovisual material, which is a step in the right direction. They're working on getting some solid artefacts across, but that's proving difficult. Every time they try for something solid, they get more tracks from the last album the Beatles ever managed to record."

Sir Paul was interested in spite of himself. "Oh, yes? What is it?"

"Apparently it's called Mandala. Seems to have been hugely popular, judging by all the material we've been hearing about it. There have been a few oddities, though, that we're having trouble interpreting. Some suggestions that Abbey Road was the last album they ever recorded, and that Mandala and Let It Be were never made."

"But we've been hearing so much about Mandala and Let It Be! And Sarah won't stop listening to them."

Sir Richard laughed. Sir Paul might have been very reluctant to let anybody know about the project, but he had allowed his only child to listen to the albums. She had begged and pleaded with him to allow her friends to listen to them as well, but he had stood firm. And, being unwilling to sacrifice the enhanced security status her father had got her and lose those albums, she had obeyed.

"We think we're getting footage from a number of different realities," Sir Richard said. "It's the only explanation that makes any sense."

Sir Paul shrugged, noncommittally. He didn't really understand the science behind all this. All that really mattered was that Sir Richard understood what was happening, and that they were making progress. Hopefully, they would soon progress to the point where they started getting some useful intelligence from the rest of the world. Any information about what exactly Russia was up to was going to be very welcome.

"What's the word on Lennon?" Sir Richard asked.

Sir Paul grimaced. He didn't really know why he continued to keep track of John Lennon - the man was a hoodlum who had no chance of getting anywhere near the project - but he did. "He was involved in a burglary on the weekend. At the moment he's helping the police with their enquiries, but they don't have enough on him to prove he was involved. He'll probably get off."

They reached Sir Richard's office. "Why do we bother with him?" Sir Richard asked as they settled down in comfy chairs. "Lennon is worthless. He has no value to us, or to the project."

Sir Paul poured the tea, and they were soon eating hot crumpets and drinking some of their favourite breakfast tea. "He's seen in the photos," he shrugged. "As you say, he means nothing to us. He will never be a part of this project."

Sir Richard sighed. "Pity, really. His alternate self - or selves, as the case may be - are very talented men, in their field. It's a shame to see that kind of talent wasted on a petty criminal lifestyle."

"I agree," Sir Paul replied. "Still, this is very good tea. How on earth did you manage to persuade everybody to accept it?"

Sir Richard smirked, and pulled his long, bent nose. "If you're very good," he said, "I might even tell you one day."