by Stephen King
“Holy shit,” Don whispered. “What happened to Ringo?”
“Guys,” Wesley said, yawning, “I have to go to bed. I’m dying here.”
“Check one more,” Robbie said. “4,121,989. It’s my birthday. Gotta be lucky.”
But it wasn’t. When Wesley selected the Ur and added a date—January 20, 1973—not quite at random, what came up instead of ENJOY YOUR SELECTION was this: NO TIMES THIS UR AFTER NOVEMBER 19, 1962.
“Oh my God,” Wesley said, and clapped a hand to his mouth. “Dear sweet God.”
“What?” Robbie asked. “What is it?”
“I think I know,” Don said. He tried to take the pink Kindle.
Wesley, who guessed he had gone pale (but probably not as pale as he felt inside), put a hand over Don’s. “No,” he said. “I don’t think I can bear it.”
“Bear what?” Robbie nearly shouted.
“Didn’t Hugh Tollman cover the Cuban Missile Crisis?” Don asked. “Or didn’t you get that far yet?”
“What missile crisis? Was it something to do with Castro?”
Don was looking at Wesley. “I don’t really want to see, either,” he said, “but I won’t sleep tonight unless I make sure, and I don’t think you will, either.”
“Okay,” Wesley said, and thought—not for the first time, either—that curiosity rather than rage was the true bane of the human spirit. “You’ll have to do it, though. My hands are trembling too much.”
Don filled in the fields for NOVEMBER 19, 1962. The Kindle told him to enjoy his selection, but he didn’t. None of them did. The headlines were stark and huge:
NYC TOLL SURPASSES 6 MILLION
MANHATTAN DECIMATED BY RADIATION
RUSSIA SAID TO BE OBLITERATED
LOSSES IN EUROPE AND ASIA “INCALCULABLE”
CHINESE LAUNCH 40 ICBMS
“Turn it off,” Robbie said in a small, sick voice. “It’s like that song says—I don’t wanna see no more.”
Don said, “Look on the bright side, you two. It seems we dodged the bullet in most of the Urs, including this one.” But his voice wasn’t quite steady.
“Robbie’s right,” Wesley said. He had discovered that the final issue of the New York Times in Ur 4,121,989 was only three pages long. And every article was death. “Turn it off. I wish I’d never seen the damn thing in the first place.”
“Too late now,” Robbie said. And how right he was.
* * *
They went downstairs together and stood on the sidewalk in front of Wesley’s building. Main Street was almost deserted now. The rising wind moaned around the buildings and rattled late November leaves along the sidewalks. A trio of drunk students was stumbling back toward Fraternity Row, singing what might have been “Paradise City.”
“I can’t tell you what to do—it’s your gadget—but if it was mine, I’d get rid of it,” Don said. “It’ll suck you in.”
Wesley thought of telling him he’d already had this idea, but didn’t. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Nope,” Don said. “I’m driving the wife and kids to Frankfort for a wonderful three-day weekend at my in-laws’. Suzy Montanari’s taking my classes. And after this little seminar tonight, I’m delighted to be getting away. Robbie? Drop you somewhere?”
“Thanks, but no need. I share an apartment with a couple of other guys two blocks up the street. Over Susan and Nan’s Place.”
“Isn’t that a little noisy?” Wesley asked. Susan and Nan’s was the local café, and opened at six AM seven days a week.
“Most days I sleep right through it.” Robbie flashed a grin. “Also, when it comes to the rent, the price is right.”
“Good deal. Night, you guys,” Don started for his Tercel, then turned back. “I intend to kiss my kids before I turn in. Maybe it’ll help me get to sleep. That last story—” He shook his head. “I could have done without that. No offense, Robbie, but stick your birthday up your ass.”
They watched his diminishing taillights and Robbie said thoughtfully, “Nobody ever told me to stick my birthday before.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to take it personally. And he’s probably right about the Kindle, you know. It’s fascinating—too fascinating—but useless in any practical sense.”
Robbie stared at him, wide-eyed. “You’re calling access to thousands of undiscovered novels by the great masters of the craft useless? Sheezis, what kind of English teacher are you?”
Wesley had no comeback. Especially when he knew that, late or not, he’d probably be reading more of Cortland’s Dogs before turning in.
“Besides,” Robbie said. “It might not be entirely useless. You could type up one of those books and send it in to a publisher, ever think of that? You know, submit it under your own name. Become the next big thing. They’d call you the heir to Vonnegut or Roth or whoever.”
It was an attractive idea, especially when Wesley thought of the useless scribbles in his briefcase. But he shook his head. “It’d probably violate the Paradox Laws…whatever they are. More importantly, it would eat at me like acid. From the inside out.” He hesitated, not wanting to sound prissy, but wanting to articulate what felt like the real reason for not doing such a thing. “I would feel ashamed.”
The kid smiled. “You’re a good dude, Wesley.” They were walking in the direction of Robbie’s apartment now, the leaves rattling around their feet, a quarter moon flying through the wind-driven clouds overhead.
“You think so?”
“I do. And so does Coach Silverman.”
Wesley stopped, caught by surprise. “What do you know about me and Coach Silverman?”
“Personally? Not a thing. But you must know Josie’s on the team. Josie Quinn from class?”
“Of course I know Josie.” The one who’d sounded like a kindly anthropologist when they’d been discussing the Kindle. And yes, he had known she was a Lady Meerkat. Unfortunately one of the subs who usually got into the game only if it was a total blowout.
“Josie says Coach has been really sad since you and her broke up. Grouchy, too. She makes them run all the time, and kicked one girl right off the team.”
“That was before we broke up.” Thinking: In a way that’s why we broke up. “Um…does the whole team know about us?”
Robbie Henderson looked at him as though he were mad. “If Josie knows, they all know.”
“How?” Because Ellen wouldn’t have told them; briefing the team on your love—life was not a coachly thing to do.
“How do women know anything?” Robbie asked. “They just do.”
“Are you and Josie Quinn an item, Robbie?”
“We’re going in the right direction. G’night, Wes. I’m gonna sleep in tomorrow—no classes on Friday—but if you drop by Susan and Nan’s for lunch, come on up and knock on my door.”
“I might do that,” Wesley said. “Goodnight, Robbie. Thanks for being one of the Three Stooges.”
“I’d say the pleasure was all mine, but I have to think about that.”
* * *
Instead of reading ur-Hemingway when he got back, Wesley stuffed the Kindle in his briefcase. Then he took out the mostly blank bound notebook and ran his hand over its pretty cover. For your book ideas, Ellen had said, and it had to’ve been an expensive present. Too bad it was going to waste.
I could still write a book, he thought. Just because I haven’t in any of the other Urs doesn’t mean I couldn’t here.
It was true. He could be the Sarah Palin of American letters. Because sometimes longshots came in.
Both for good and for ill.
He undressed, brushed his teeth, then called the English Department and left a message for the secretary to cancel his one morning class. “Thanks, Marilyn. Sorry to put this on you, but I think I’m coming down with the flu.” He added an unconvincing cough and hung up.
He thought he would lie sleepless for hours, thinking of all those other worlds, but in the dark they seemed as unreal as actors when you s
aw them on a movie screen. They were big up there—often beautiful, too—but they were still only shadows thrown by light. Maybe the Ur-worlds were like that, too.
What seemed real in this post-midnight hour was the sound of the wind, the beautiful sound of the wind telling tales of Tennessee, where it had been earlier this evening. Lulled by it, Wesley fell asleep, and he slept deeply and long. There were no dreams, and when he woke up, sunshine was flooding his bedroom. For the first time since his own undergraduate days, he had slept until almost eleven in the morning.
V — Ur Local (Under Construction)
He took a long hot shower, shaved, dressed, and decided to go down to Susan and Nan’s for either a late breakfast or an early lunch, whichever looked better on the menu. As for Robbie, Wesley decided he’d let the kid sleep. He’d be out practicing with the rest of the hapless football team this afternoon; surely he deserved to sleep late. It occurred to him that, if he took a table by the window, he might see the Athletic Department bus go by as the girls set off for the Bluegrass Invitational, eighty miles away. He’d wave. Ellen wouldn’t see him, but he’d do it anyway.
He took his briefcase without even thinking about it.
* * *
He ordered the Susan’s Sexy Scramble (onions, peppers, mozzarella cheese) with bacon on the side, along with coffee and juice. By the time the young waitress brought his food, he’d taken out the Kindle and was reading Cortland’s Dogs. It was Hemingway, all right, and one terrific story.
“Kindle, isn’t it?” the waitress asked. “I got one for Christmas, and I love it. I’m reading my way through all of Jodi Picoult’s books.”
“Oh, probably not all of them,” Wesley said.
“Huh? Why not?”
“She’s probably got another one done already. That’s all I meant.”
“And James Patterson’s probably written one since he got up this morning!” she said, and went off chortling.
Wesley had pushed the MAIN MENU button while they were talking, hiding the Ur-Hemingway novel without really thinking about it. Feeling guilty about what he was reading? Afraid the waitress might get a look and start screaming That’s not real Hemingway? Ridiculous. But just owning the pink Kindle made him feel a little bit like a crook. It wasn’t his, after all, and the stuff he had downloaded wasn’t really his, either, because he wasn’t the one paying for it.
Maybe no one is, he thought, but didn’t believe it. He thought one of the universal truths of life was that, sooner or later, someone always paid.
There was nothing especially sexy about his scramble, but it was good. Instead of going back to Cortland and his winter dog, he accessed the UR menu. The one function he hadn’t peeked into was UR LOCAL. Which was UNDER CONSTRUCTION. What had Robbie said about that last night? Better watch out, traffic fines double. The kid was sharp and might get even sharper, if he didn’t batter his brains out playing senseless Division Three football. Smiling, Wesley highlighted UR LOCAL and pushed the select button. This message came up:
ACCESS CURRENT UR LOCATION? Y N
Wesley selected Y. The Kindle thought some more, then posted a new message:
THE CURRENT UR LOCAL IS MOORE ECHO
ACCESS? Y N
Wesley considered the question while eating a strip of bacon. The Echo was a rag specializing in yard sales, local sports, and town politics. The townies scanned those things, he supposed, but mostly bought the paper for the obituaries and Police Beat. Everybody liked to know which neighbors had died or been jailed. Searching 10.4 million Moore, Kentucky Urs sounded pretty boring, but why not? Wasn’t he basically marking time, drawing his breakfast out, so he could watch the players’ bus go by?
“Sad but true,” he said, and highlighted the Y button. What came up was similar to a message he had seen before: Ur Local is protected by all applicable Paradox Laws. Do you agree? Y N.
Now that was strange. The New York Times archive wasn’t protected by these Paradox Laws, whatever they were, but their pokey local paper was? It made no sense, but seemed harmless. Wesley shrugged and selected Y.
WELCOME TO THE ECHO PRE-ARCHIVE!
YOUR PRICE IS $40.00/4 DOWNLOADS
$350.00/10 DOWNLOADS
$2500.00/100 DOWNLOADS
Wesley put his fork on his plate and sat frowning at the screen. Not only was the local paper Paradox Law-protected, it was a hell of a lot more expensive. Why? And what the hell was a pre-archive? To Wesley, that sounded like a paradox in itself. Or an oxymoron.
Well, it’s under construction, he said. Traffic fines double and so do download expenses. That’s the explanation. Plus, I’m not paying for it.
No, but because the idea persisted that he might someday be forced to (someday soon!), he compromised on the middle choice. The next screen was similar to the one for the Times archive, but not quite the same; it just asked him to select a date. To him this suggested nothing but an ordinary newspaper archive, the kind he could find on microfilm at the local library. If so, why the big expense?
He shrugged, typed in July 5, 2008, and pushed select. The Kindle responded immediately, posting this message:
FUTURE DATES ONLY
THIS IS NOVEMBER 20, 2009
For a moment he didn’t get it. Then he did, and the world suddenly turned itself up to super-bright, as if some supernatural being had cranked the rheostat controlling the daylight. And all the noises in the café—the clash of forks, the rattle of plates, the steady babble of conversation—seemed too loud.
“My God,” he whispered. “No wonder it’s expensive.”
This was too much. Way too much. He moved to turn the Kindle off, then heard cheering and yelling outside. He looked up and saw a yellow bus with MOORE COLLEGE ATHLETIC DEPARTMENT printed on the side. Cheerleaders and players were leaning out the open windows, waving and laughing and yelling stuff like “Go, Meerkats!” and “We’re number one!” One of the young women was actually wearing a big foam Number One finger on her hand. The pedestrians on Main Street were grinning and waving back.
Wesley lifted his own hand and waved feebly. The bus driver honked his horn. Flapping from the rear of the bus was a piece of sheeting with THE MEERKATS WILL ROCK THE RUPP spray-painted on it. Wesley became aware that people in the café were applauding. All this seemed to be happening in another world. Another Ur.
When the bus was gone, Wesley looked down at the pink Kindle again. He decided he wanted to utilize at least one of his ten downloads, after all. The locals didn’t have much use for the student body as a whole—the standard town-versus-gown thing—but they loved the Lady Meerkats because everybody loves a winner. The tourney’s results, pre-season or not, would be front-page news in Monday’s Echo. If they won, he could buy Ellen a victory gift, and if they lost, he could buy her a consolation present.
“I’m a winner either way,” he said, and entered Monday’s date: November 23rd, 2009.
The Kindle thought for a long time, then produced a newspaper front page.
The date was Monday’s date.
The headline was huge and black.
Wesley spilled his coffee and yanked the Kindle out of danger even as lukewarm coffee soaked his crotch.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later he was pacing the living room of Robbie Henderson’s apartment while Robbie—who’d been up when Wesley came hammering at the door but was still wearing the tee-shirt and basketball shorts he slept in-stared at the screen of the Kindle.
“We have to call someone,” Wesley said. He was smacking a fist into an open palm, and hard enough to turn the skin red. “We have to call the police. No, wait! The arena! Call the Rupp and leave a message for her to call me, ASAP! No, that’s wrong! Too slow! I’ll call her now. That’s what—”
“Relax, Mr. Smith—Wes, I mean.”
“How can I relax? Don’t you see that thing? Are you blind?”
“No, but you still have to relax. Pardon the expression, but you’re losing your shit, and people can’t think produc
tively when they’re doing that.”
“But—”
“Take a deep breath. And remind yourself that according to this, we’ve got almost sixty hours.”
“Easy for you to say. Your girlfriend isn’t going to be on that bus when it starts back to—” Then he stopped, because that wasn’t so. Josie Quinn was on the team, and according to Robbie, he and Josie had a thing going on.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I saw the headline and freaked. I didn’t even pay for my breakfast, just ran up here. I know I look like I wet my pants, and I damn near did. Not with coffee, either. Thank God your roommates are gone.”
“I’m pretty freaked, too,” Robbie admitted, and for a moment they studied the screen in silence. According to Wesley’s Kindle, Monday’s edition of The Echo was going to have a black border around the front page as well as a black headline on top of it. That headline read:
COACH, 7 STUDENTS KILLED IN HORRIFIC BUS CRASH
9 OTHERS CRITICAL
The story itself really wasn’t a story at all, only an item. Even in his distress, Wesley knew why. The accident had happened—no, was going to happen—at just short of nine PM on Sunday night. Too late to report any details, although probably if they heated up Robbie’s computer and went to the Internet—
What was he thinking? The Internet did not predict the future; only the pink Kindle did that.
His hands were shaking too badly to enter November 24th. He pushed the Kindle to Robbie.
“You do it.” Robbie managed, though it took him two tries. The Echo’s Tuesday story was more complete, but the headline was even worse:
