It had been fortunate that the business with Emma hadn't set them back.

Pete had worried about it, then had been delighted when the

whole affair had generated sympathy, and record sales. True, Pete still

had to cross swords with Jane Palmer from time to time, but the mess had

never put a dent in the group's popularity. Nor had Brian's marriage.

It had frustrated Pete that he hadn't been able to portray the group as

four young, single men. But Brian's family life had turned into a

bounty of press.

The pity was the peace rallies, the speeches. Brian's affection for the

Students for a Democratic Society, his outspoken support of American

draft dodgers. They'd nearly had the cover of 7-ime before Brian had

popped off with a few ill-chosen criticisms of the Chicago Seven trial.

Pete understood the power of the press, how one careless statement could

have the ma.s.ses, the record-buying ma.s.ses, turning against you. John

Lennon had opened his own can of worms a few years earlier with an

offhand, sarcastic comment about the Beaties being bigger than Jesus.

Brian had come close, too close, to making the same mistake.

He was ent.i.tled to his politics, of course, Pete thought as he sipped

his whisky. But there was a point where personal beliefs and public

success parted ways. Between Stevie's enchantment with drugs and

Brian's idealism, there was bound to be a disaster.

There were ways to avoid it, of course, and he had already begun to

consider a few. He needed the public to see Stevie not just as a

drugged-out rocker, but as an extraordinary musician. He needed them to

see Brian as not only a peacenik but a devoted father.

With the right balance of images, not only the youth would be buying

records and magazines but their parents as well.

THEY STAYED iN California another two weeks, basking in long, lazy days,

making love in the afternoon, giving all-night parties. There were

midweek trips to Disneyland in careful disguises. The photographers

Pete hired to record the outings were so discreet Bev never noticed

them.

She decided to throw out her birth control pills, and Brian wrote love

songs.

As the time to go back to England drew near, the group made peace within

themselves, and set up an informal headquarters in Brian's hillside

home.

"We should all go." Johnno carelessly pa.s.sed his turn on the bong. "Hair

was the first important musical for our generation. A rock musical." He

liked the phrase, the grandeur of it. Already he was turning over ideas

for one. He hoped, when they returned to London, he and Brian could put

together a musical that would outdo Hair, and the Who's current success,

Tommy.

"We can lay over in New York a couple of days," he continued, "see the

play, raise some h.e.l.l, then head back to London."

"Do they really strip naked?" Stevie wanted to know.

"Right down to the buff, son. That should be worth the price of a

ticket."

"We should go." Mellowed from the company and smoke, Brian rested his

head on Bev's knee. He'd already stayed in one place longer than he