UR Stephen King Table of Contents IExperimenting with New Technology IIUr Functions IIIWesley Refuses to Go Mad IVNews Archive VUr Local (Under Construction) VICandy Rymer VIIThe Paradox Police VIIIEllen IExperimenting with New Technology When Wesley Smiths colleagues asked himsome with an eyebrow hoicked satiricallywhat he was doing with that gadget (they all called it a gadget), he told them he was experimenting with new technology, but that was not true. He bought the gadget, which was called a Kindle, out of spite. I wonder if the market analysts at Amazon even have that one on their productsurvey radar, he thought. He guessed not. This gave him some satisfaction, but not as much as he hoped to derive from Ellen Silvermans surprise when she saw him with his new purchase. That hadnt happened yet, but it would. It was a small campus, after all, and hed only been in possession of his new toy (he called it his new toy, at least to begin with) for a week. Wesley was an instructor in the English Department at MooreCollege, in Moore, Kentucky. Like all instructors of English, he thought he had a novel in him somewhere and would write it someday. MooreCollege was the sort of institution that people call a good school. Wesleys friend in the English Department (his only friend in the English Department) once explained what that meant. His friends name was Don Allman, and when he introduced himself, he liked to say, One of the Allman Brothers. I play a mean tuba. (He did not actually play anything.) A good school, he said, is one nobody has ever heard of outside a thirtymile radius. People call it a good school because nobody knows its a bad school, and most people are optimists, although they may claim they are not. People who call themselves realists are often the biggest optimists of all. Does that make you a realist? Wesley once asked him. I think the world is mostly populated by shitheads, Don Allman responded. You figure it out. Moore wasnt a good school, but neither was it a bad school. On the great scale of academic excellence, its place resided just a little south of mediocre. Most of its three thousand students paid their bills and many of them got jobs after graduating, although few went on to obtain (or even try for) graduate degrees. There was a fair amount of drinking, and of course there were parties, but on the great scale of partyschools, Moores place resided a little to the north of mediocre. It had produced politicians, but all of the smallwater variety, even when it came to graft and chicanery. In 1978, one Moore graduate was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives, but he dropped dead of a heart attack after serving only four months. His replacement was a graduate of Baylor. The schools only marks of exceptionality had to do with its Division Three football team and its Division Three womens basketball team. The football team (the Moore Meerkats) was one of the worst in America, having won only seven games in the last ten years. There was constant talk of disbanding it. The current coach was a drug addict who liked to tell people that he had seen The Wrestler twelve times and never failed to cry when Mickey Rourke told his estranged daughter that he was just a brokendown piece of meat. The womens basketball team, however, was exceptional in a good way, especially considering that most of the players were no more than fivefeetseven and were preparing for jobs as marketing managers, wholesale buyers, or (if they were lucky) personal assistants to Men of Power. The Lady Meerkats had won eight conference titles in the last ten years. The coach was Wesleys exgirlfriend, ex as of one month previous. Ellen Silverman was the source of the spite that had moved Wesley to buy a Kindle from Amazon, Inc., the company that sold them. WellEllen and the Henderson kid in Wesleys Introduction to Modern American Fiction class. . Don Allman also claimed the Moore faculty was mediocre. Not terrible, like the football teamthat, at least, would have been interestingbut definitely mediocre. What about us? Wesley asked. They were in the office they shared. If a student came in for a conference, the instructor who had not been sought would leave. For most of the fall and spring semesters this was not an issue, as students never came in for conferences until just before finals. Even then, only the veteran gradegrubbers, the ones whod been doing it since elementary school, turned up. Don Allman said he sometimes fantasized about a juicy coed wearing a teeshirt that said I WILL SCREW YOU FOR AN A, but this never happened. What about us? What about us? Look at us, bro. Im going to write a novel, Wesley replied, although even saying it depressed him. Almost everything depressed him since Ellen had walked out. When he wasnt depressed, he felt spiteful. Yes! And President Obama is going to tab me as the new Poet Laureate! Don Allman exclaimed. Then he pointed at something on Wesleys cluttered desk. The Kindle was currently sitting on American Dreams, the textbook Wesley used in his Intro to American Lit class. Hows that working out for you? Fine, Wesley said. Will it ever replace the book? Never, Wesley said. But he had already begun to wonder. I thought they only came in white, Don Allman said. Wesley looked at Don as haughtily as he himself had been looked at in the department meeting where his Kindle had made its public debut. Nothing only comes in white, he said. This is America. Don Allman considered this, then said I heard you and Ellen broke up. Wesley sighed. . Ellen had been his other friend, and one with benefits, until four weeks ago. She wasnt in the English Department, of course, but the thought of going to bed with anyone in the English Department, even Suzanne Montanari, who was vaguely presentable, made him shudder. Ellen was fivetwo (eyes of blue!), slim, with a mop of short, curly black hair that made her look distinctly elfin. She had a dynamite figure and kissed like a dervish. (Wesley had never kissed a dervish, but he could imagine.) Nor did her energy flag when they were in bed. Once, winded, he lay back and said, Ill never equal you as a lover. If you keep talking snooty like that, you wont be my lover for long. Youre okay, Wes. But he guessed he wasnt. He guessed he was just sort ofmediocre. It wasnt his lessthanathletic sexual ability that ended their relationship, however. It wasnt the fact that Ellen was a vegan with tofu hotdogs in her fridge. It wasnt the fact that she would sometimes lie in bed after lovemaking, talking about pickandrolls, giveandgos, and the inability of Shawna Deeson to learn something Ellen called the old garden gate. In fact, these monologues sometimes put Wesley into his deepest, sweetest, and most refreshing sleeps. He thought it was the monotony of her voice, so different from the shrieks (often profane) of encouragement she let out while they were making love, shrieks that were similar to the ones she uttered during games, running up and down the sidelines like a hare (or a squirrel going up a tree), exhorting her girls to Pass the ball! and Go to the hole! and Drive the paint! Sometimes in bed she was reduced to yelling Harder, harder, harder! As, in the closing minutes of a game, she was often able to exhort no more than Bucketbucketbucket! They were in some ways perfectly matched, at least for the short term; she was fiery iron, straight from the forge, and hein his apartment filled with bookswas the water in which she cooled herself. The books were the problem. That, and the fact that he had called her an illiterate bitch. He had never called a woman such a thing in his life before, but she had surprised an anger out of him that he had never suspected. He might be a mediocre instructor, as Don Allman had suggested, and the novel he had in him might remain in him (like a wisdom tooth that never comes up, at least avoiding the possibility of rot, infection, and an expensivenot to mention painfuldental process), but he loved books. Books were his Achilles heel. She had come in fuming, which was not new, but also fundamentally upseta state he failed to recognize because he had never seen her in it before. Also, he was rereading James Dickeys Deliverance, reveling again in how well Dickey had harnessed his poetic sensibility, at least that once, to narrative, and he had just gotten to the closing passages, where the unfortunate canoeists are trying to cover up both what they have done and what has been done to them. He had no idea that Ellen had just been forced to boot Shawna Deeson off the team, or that the two of them had had a screaming fight in the gym in front of the whole teamplus the boys basketball team, which was waiting their turn to practice their mediocre movesor that Shawna Deeson had then gone outside and heaved a large rock at the windshield of Ellens Volvo, an act for which she would surely be suspended. He had no idea that Ellen was now blaming herself, bitterly blaming herself, because she was supposed to be the adult. He heard that partIm supposed to be the adultand said Uhhuh for the fifth or sixth time, which was one time too many for Ellen Silverman, whose fiery temper hadnt exhausted itself for the day after all. She plucked Deliverance from Wesleys hands, threw it across the room, and said the words that would haunt him for the next lonely month Why cant you just read off the computer, like the rest of us? She really said that? Don Allman asked, a remark that woke Wesley from a trancelike state. He realized he had just told the whole story to his officemate. He hadnt meant to, but he had. And there was no going back now. She did. And I said, That was a first edition I got from my father, you illiterate bitch. Don Allman was speechless. He could only stare. She walked out, Wesley said miserably. I havent seen or spoken to her since. Havent even called to say youre sorry? Wesley had tried to do this, and had gotten only her answering machine. He had thought of going over to the house she rented from the college, but thought she might put a fork in his faceor some other part of his anatomy. Also, he didnt consider what had happened to be entirely his fault. She hadnt even given him a chance. Plusshe was illiterate, or close to it. Had told him once in bed that the only book shed read for pleasure since coming to Moore was Reach for the Summit The Definite Dozen System for Succeeding at Whatever You Do, by Tennessee Vols coach Pat Summit. She watched TV (mostly sports), and when she wanted to dig deeper into some news story, she went to The Drudge Report. She certainly wasnt computer illiterate. She praised the MooreCollege wireless network (which was superlative rather than mediocre), and never went anywhere without her laptop slung over her shoulder. On the front was a picture of Tamika Catchings with blood running down her face from a split eyebrow and the legend I PLAY LIKE A GIRL. Don Allman sat in silence for a few moments, tapping his fingers on his narrow chest. Outside their window, November leaves rattled across Moore Quadrangle. Then he said Did Ellen walking out have anything to do with that? He nodded to Wesleys new electronic sidekick. It did, didnt it? You decided to read off the computer, just like the rest of us. Towhat? Woo her back? No, Wesley said, because he didnt want to tell the truth in a way he still didnt completely understand, he had done it to get back at her. Or make fun of her. Or something. Not at all. Im merely experimenting with new technology. Right, said Don Allman. And Im the new Poet Laureate. . His car was in Parking Lot A, but Wesley elected to walk the two miles back to his apartment, a thing he often did when he wanted to think. He trudged down Moore Avenue, first past the fraternity houses, then past apartment houses blasting rock and rap from every window, then past the bars and takeout restaurants that serve as a lifesupport system for every small college in America. There was also a bookstore specializing in used texts and last years bestsellers offered at fifty per cent off. It looked dusty and dispirited and was often empty. Because people were home reading off the computer, Wesley assumed. Brown leaves blew around his feet. His briefcase banged against one knee. Inside were his texts, the current book he was reading for pleasure (2666, by the late Roberto Bolano), and a bound notebook with beautiful marbleized boards. This had been a gift from Ellen on the occasion of his birthday. For your book ideas, she had said. In July, that was, when things between them had still been swell and theyd had the campus pretty much to themselves. The blank book had over two hundred pages, but only the first one had been marked by his large, flat scrawl. At the top of the page (printed) was THE NOVEL! Below that was A young boy discovers that his father and mother are both having affairs And A young boy, blind since birth, is kidnapped by his lunatic grandfather who And A teenager falls in love with his best friends mother and Below this one was the final idea, written shortly after Ellen had thrown Deliverance across the room and stalked out of his life. A shy but dedicated small college instructor and his athletic but largely illiterate girlfriend have a fallingout after It was probably the best ideawrite what you know, all the experts agreed on thatbut he simply couldnt go there. Talking to Don had been hard enough. And even then, complete honesty had escaped him. Like saying how much he wanted her back, for instance. As he approached the threeroom flat he called homewhat Don Allman sometimes called his bachelor padWesleys thoughts turned to the Henderson kid. Was his name Richard or Robert? Wesley had a block about that, not the same as the block he had about fleshing out any of the fragmentary missionstatements for his novel, but probably related. He had an idea all such blocks were probably fearcentered and basically hysterical in nature, as if the brain detected (or thought it had detected) some nasty interior beast and had locked it in a cell with a steel door. You could hear it thumping and jumping in there like a rabid raccoon that would bite if approached, but you couldnt see it. The Henderson kid was on the football teama noseback or point guard or some such thingand while he was as horrible on the gridiron as any of them, he was a nice kid and a fairly good student. Wesley liked him. But still, he had been ready to tear the boys head off when he spotted him in class with what Wesley assumed was a PDA or a newfangled cell phone. This was shortly after Ellen had walked out. In those early days of the breakup, Wesley often found himself up at three in the morning, pulling some literary comfortfood down from the shelf usually his old friends Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin, their adventures recounted by Patrick OBrian. And not even that had kept him from remembering the ringing slam of the door as Ellen left his life, probably for good. So he was in a foul mood and more than ready for backtalk as he approached Henderson and said, Put it away. This is a literature class, not an Internet chatroom. The Henderson kid had looked up and given him a sweet smile. It hadnt lifted Wesleys foul mood in the slightest, but it did dissolve his anger on contact. Mostly because he wasnt an angry man by nature. He supposed he was depressive by nature, maybe even dysthymic. Hadnt he always suspected that Ellen Silverman was too good for him? Hadnt he known, in his heart of hearts, that the doorslam had been waiting for him from the very beginning, when hed spent the evening talking to her at a boring faculty party? Ellen played like a girl; he played like a loser. He couldnt even stay mad at a student who was goofing with his pocket computer (or Nintendo, or whatever it was) in class. Its the assignment, Mr. Smith, the Henderson kid had said (on his forehead was a large purple bruise from his latest outing in the Meerkat blue). Its Pauls Case. Look. The kid turned the gadget so Wesley could see it. It was a flat white panel, rectangular, less than half an inch thick. At the top was amazonkindle and the smilelogo Wesley knew well; he was not entirely computer illiterate himself, and had ordered books from Amazon plenty of times (although he usually tried the bookstore in town first, partly out of pity; even the cat who spent most of its life dozing in the window looked malnourished). The interesting thing on the kids gadget wasnt the logo on top or the teenytiny keyboard (a computer keyboard, surely!) on the bottom. In the middle of the gadget was a screen, and on the screen was not a screensaver or a video game where young men and women with buffedout bodies were killing zombies in the ruins of New York, but a page of Willa Cathers story about the poor boy with the destructive illusions. Wesley had reached for it, then drew back his hand. May I? Go ahead, the Henderson kidRichard or Roberttold him. Its pretty neat. You can download books from thin air, and you can make the type as big as you want. Also, the books are cheaper because theres no paper or binding. That sent a minor chill through Wesley. He became aware that most of his Intro to American Lit class was watching him. As a thirtyfiveyearold, Wesley supposed it was hard for them to decide if he was Old School (like the ancient Dr. Wence, who looked remarkably like a crocodile in a threepiece suit) or NewSchool (like Suzanne Montanari, who liked to play Avril Lavignes Girlfriend in her Introduction to Modern Drama class). Wesley supposed his reaction to Hendersons Kindle would help them with that. Mr. Henderson, he said, there will always be books. Which means there will always be paper and binding. Books are real objects. Books are friends. Yeah, but! Henderson had replied, his sweet smile now becoming slightly sly. But? Theyre also ideas and emotions. You said so in our first class. Well, Wesley had said, youve got me there. But books arent solely ideas. Books have a smell, for instance. One that gets bettermore nostalgicas the years go by. Does this gadget of yours have a smell? Nope, Henderson replied. Not really. But when you turn the pageshere, with this buttonthey kind of flutter, like in a real book, and I can go to any page I want, and when it sleeps, it shows pictures of famous writers, and it holds a charge, and Its a computer, Wesley had said. Youre reading off the computer. The Henderson kid had taken his Kindle back. You say that like its a bad thing. Its still Pauls Case. Youve never heard of a Kindle, Mr. Smith? Josie Quinn had asked. Her tone was that of a kindly anthropologist asking a member of New Guineas Kombai tribe if he had ever heard of electric stoves and elevator shoes. No, he said, not because it was truehe had seen something called SHOP THE KINDLE STORE when he bought books from Amazon onlinebut because, on the whole, he thought he would prefer being perceived by them as Old School. New School was somehowmediocre. You ought to get one, the Henderson kid said, and when Wesley had replied, without even thinking, Perhaps I will, the class had broken into spontaneous applause. For the first time since Ellens departure, Wesley had felt faintly cheered. Because they wanted him to get a bookreading gadget, and also because the applause suggested they did see him as Old School. Teachable Old School. He did not seriously consider buying a Kindle (if he was Old School, then books were definitely the way to go) until a couple of weeks later. One day on his way home from school he imagined Ellen seeing him with his Kindle, just strolling across the quad and bopping his finger on the little NEXT PAGE button. What in the world are you doing? she would ask. Speaking to him at last. Reading off the computer, he would say. Just like the rest of you. Spiteful! But, as the Henderson kid might put it, was that a bad thing? It occurred to him that spite was a kind of methadone for lovers. Was it better to go cold turkey? Perhaps not. When he got home he turned on his desktop Dell (he owned no laptop and took pride in the fact) and went to the Amazon website. He had expected the gadget to go for four hundred dollars or so, maybe more if there was a Cadillac model, and was surprised to find it was cheaper than that. Then he went to the Kindle Store (which he had been so successfully ignoring) and discovered that the Henderson kid was right the books were ridiculously cheap, hardcover novels (what cover, haha) priced below most trade paperbacks. Considering what he spent on books, the Kindle might pay for itself. As for the reaction of his colleaguesall those hoicked eyebrowsWesley discovered he relished the prospect. Which led to an interesting insight into human nature, or at least the human nature of the academic one liked to be perceived by ones students as Old School, but by ones peers as NewSchool. Im experimenting with new technology, he imagined himself saying. He liked the sound of it. It was NewSchool all the way. He also liked thinking of Ellens reaction. He had stopped leaving messages on her phone, and he had begun avoiding placesThe Pit Stop, Harrys Pizzawhere he might run into her, but that could change. Surely Im reading off the computer, just like the rest of you was too good a line to waste. Oh, thats small, he scolded himself as he sat in front of his computer, looking at the picture of the Kindle.That is spite so small it probably wouldnt poison a newborn kitten. True! But if it was the only spite of which he was capable, why not indulge it? So he had clicked on the Buy Kindle box, and the gadget had arrived a day later, in a box stamped with the smile logo and the words ONEDAY DELIVERY. Wesley hadnt opted for oneday, and would protest that charge if it showed up on his MasterCard bill, but he had unpacked his new acquisition with real pleasuresimilar to the pleasure he felt when unpacking a box of books, but sharper. Because there was that sense of heading into the unknown, he supposed. Not that he expected the Kindle to replace books, or to be much more than a novelty item, really; an attentiongetter for a few weeks or months that would afterward stand forgotten and gathering dust beside the Rubiks Cube on the knickknack shelf in his living room. It didnt strike him as peculiar that, whereas the Henderson kids Kindle had been white, his was pink. Not then. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright  2009 by Stephen King All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Author. For information address Ralph M. Vicinanza, Ltd. 303 West 18th Street New York, N.Y. 10011 Contents IExperimenting with New Technology IIUr Functions IIIWesley Refuses to Go Mad IVNews Archive VUr Local (Under Construction) VICandy Rymer VIIThe Paradox Police VIIIEllen IIIWesley Refuses to Go Mad In a real dark night of the soul, Scott Fitzgerald had said, it is always three oclock in the morning, day after day. At three oclock on that Tuesday morning, Wesley lay feverishly awake, wondering if he might be cracking up himself. He had forced himself to turn off the pink Kindle and put it back in his briefcase an hour ago, but its hold over him remained every bit as strong as it had been at midnight, when he had still been deep in the UR BOOKS menu. He had searched for Ernest Hemingway in two dozen of the Kindles almost ten and a half million Urs, and had come up with at least twenty novels he had never heard of. In one of the Urs (it happened to be 6,201,949which, when broken down, was his mothers birth date), Hemingway appeared to have been a crime writer. Wesley had downloaded a title called Its Blood, My Darling!, and discovered your basic dime novelbut written in staccato, punchy sentences he would have recognized anywhere. Hemingway sentences. And even as a crime writer, Hemingway had departed from gang wars and cheating, gorehappy debs long enough to write A Farewell to Arms. He always wrote A Farewell to Arms, it seemed; other titles came and went, but A Farewell to Arms was always there and The Old Man and the Sea was usually there. He tried Faulkner. Faulkner was not there at all, in any of the Urs. He checked the regular menu, and discovered that Faulkner was not available in what he was coming to think of as his reality, either, at least not in Kindle editions. Only a few books about American literatures Count Nocount. He checked Roberto Bolano, the author of 2666, and although it wasnt available from the normal Kindle menu, it was listed in several UR BOOKS submenus. So were other Bolano novels, including (in Ur 101) a book with the colorful title Marilyn Blows Fidel. He almost downloaded that one, then changed his mind. So many authors, so many Urs, so little time. A part of his minddistant yet authentically terrifiedcontinued to insist it was all an elaborate joke which had arisen from some degenerate computer programmers lunatic imagination. Yet the evidence, which he continued to compile as that long night progressed, suggested otherwise. James Cain, for instance. In one Ur Wesley checked, he had died exceedingly young, producing only two books Nightfall (a new one) and Mildred Pierce (an oldie). Wesley would have bet on The Postman Always Rings Twice to have been a Cain constanthis urnovel, so to speakbut no. Although he checked a dozen Urs for Cain, he found Postman only once.Mildred Pierce, on the other handwhich he considered very minor Cain, indeedwas always there. Like A Farewell to Arms. He had checked his own name, and discovered what he feared although the Urs were lousy with Wesley Smiths (one appeared to be a writer of Westerns, another the author of porno novels such as Hot Tub Honey), none seemed to be him. Of course it was hard to be a hundred per cent sure, but it appeared that he had stumbled on 10.4 million alternate realities and he was an unpublished loser in all of them. Wide awake in his bed, listening to one lonely dog bark in the distance, Wesley began to shiver. His own literary aspirations seemed very minor to him at this moment. What seemed majorwhat loomed over his life and very sanitywere the riches hidden within that slim pink panel of plastic. He thought of all the writers whose passing he had mourned, from Norman Mailer and Saul Bellow to Donald Westlake and Evan Hunter; one after another, Thanatos stilled the magic voices and they spoke no more. But now they could. They could speak to him. He threw back the bedclothes. The Kindle was calling him. Not in a human voice, but in an organic one. It sounded like a beating heart, Poes telltale heart, coming from inside his briefcase instead of from under the floorboards, and Poe! Good God, he had never checked Poe! He had left his briefcase in its accustomed spot beside his favorite chair. He hurried to it, opened it, grabbed the Kindle, and plugged it in (no way he was going to risk running down the battery). He hurried to UR BOOKS, typed in Poes name, and on his first try found an Ur2,555,676where Poe had lived until 1875 instead of dying in 1849, at the age of forty. And this version of Poe had written novels! Six of them! Greed filled Wesleys heart (his mostly kind heart) as his eyes raced over the titles. One was called The House of Shame, or Degradations Price. Wesley downloaded itthe charge for this one was only 4.95and read until dawn. Then he turned off the pink Kindle, put his head in his arms, and slept for two hours at the kitchen table. He also dreamed. No images; only words. Titles! Endless lines of titles, many of them of undiscovered masterpieces. As many titles as there were stars in the sky. . He got through Tuesday and Wednesdaysomehowbut during his Intro to American Lit class on Thursday, lack of sleep and overexcitement caught up with him. Not to mention his increasingly tenuous hold on reality. Halfway through his Mississippi Lecture (which he usually gave with a high degree of cogency) about how Hemingway was downriver from Twain, and almost all of twentieth century American fiction was downriver from Hemingway, he realized he was telling the class that Papa had never written a great story about dogs, but if he had lived, he surely would have. Something more nutritious than Marley and Me, he said, and laughed with unnerving good cheer. He turned from the blackboard and saw twentytwo pairs of eyes looking at him with varying degrees of concern, perplexity, and amusement. He heard a whisper, low, but as clear as the beating of the old mans heart to the ears of Poes mad narrator Smithys losin it. Smithy wasnt, but there could be no doubt that he was in danger of losing it. I refuse, he thought. I refuse, I refuse. And realized, to his horror, that he was actually muttering this under his breath. The Henderson kid, who sat in the first row, had heard it. Mr. Smith? A hesitation. Sir? Are you all right? Yes, he said. No. A touch of the bug, maybe. Poes goldbug, he thought, and barely restrained himself from bursting into wild cackles. Class dismissed. Go on, get out of here. And, as they scrambled for the door, he had presence of mind enough to add Raymond Carver next week! Dont forget! Where Im Calling From! And thought What else is there by Raymond Carver in the worlds of Ur? Is there oneor a dozen, or a thousandwhere he quit smoking, lived to be seventy, and wrote another half a dozen books? He sat down at his desk, reached for his briefcase with the pink Kindle inside, then pulled his hand back. He reached again, stopped himself again, and moaned. It was like a drug. Or a sexual obsession. Thinking of that made him think of Ellen Silverman, something he hadnt done since discovering the Kindles hidden menus. For the first time since shed walked out, Ellen had completely slipped his mind. Ironic, isnt it? Now Im reading off the computer, Ellen, and I cant stop. I refuse to spend the rest of the day looking into that thing, he said, and I refuse to go mad. I refuse to look, and I refuse to go mad. To look or go mad. I refuse both. I But the pink Kindle was in his hand! He had taken it out even as he had been denying its power over him! When had he done that? And did he really intend to sit here in this empty classroom, mooning over it? Mr. Smith? The voice startled him so badly that he dropped the Kindle on his desk. He snatched it up at once and examined it, terrified it might be broken, but it was all right. Thank God. I didnt mean to startle you. It was the Henderson kid, standing in the doorway and looking concerned. This didnt surprise Wesley much. If I saw me right now, Id probably be concerned, too. Oh, you didnt startle me, Wesley said. This obvious lie struck him as funny, and he gave voice to a glassy giggle. He clapped his hand over his mouth to hold it in. Whats wrong? The Henderson kid took a step inside. I think its more than a virus. Man, you look awful. Did you get some bad news, or something? Wesley almost told him to mind his business, peddle his papers, put an egg in his shoe and beat it, but then the terrified part of him that had been cowering in the farthest corner of his brain, insisting that the pink Kindle was a prank or the opening gambit of some elaborate con, decided to stop hiding and start acting. If you really refuse to go mad, you better do something about this, it said. So how about it? Whats your first name, Mr. Henderson? Its entirely slipped my mind. The kid smiled. A pleasant smile, but the concern was still in his eyes. Robert, sir. Robbie. Well, Robbie, Im Wes.


And I want to show you something. Either you will see nothingwhich means Im deluded, and very likely suffering a nervous breakdownor you will see something that completely blows your mind. But not here. Come to my office, would you? Henderson tried to ask questions as they crossed the mediocre quad. Wesley shook them off, but he was glad Robbie Henderson had come back, and glad that the terrified part of his mind had taken the initiative and spoken up. He felt better about the Kindlesaferthan he had since discovering the hidden menus. In a fantasy story, Robbie Henderson would see nothing and the protagonist would decide he was going insane. Or had already gone. Reality seemed to be different. His reality, at least, Wesley Smiths Ur. I actually want it to be a delusion. Because if it is, and if with this young mans help I can recognize it as such, Im sure I can avoid going mad. And I refuse to go mad. Youre muttering sir, Robbie said. Wes, I mean. Sorry. Youre scaring me a little. Im also scaring me a little. Don Allman was in the office, wearing headphones, correcting papers, and singing about Jeremiah the bullfrog in a voice that went beyond the borders of merely bad and into the unexplored country of the execrable. He shut off his iPod when he saw Wesley. I thought you had class. Canceled it. This is Robert Henderson, one of my American Lit students. Robbie, Henderson said, extending his hand. Hello, Robbie. Im Don Allman. One of the Allman Brothers. I play a mean tuba. Robbie laughed politely and shook Don Allmans hand. Until that moment, Wesley had planned on asking Don to leave, thinking one witness to his mental collapse would be enough. But maybe this was that rare case where the more really was the merrier. Need some privacy? Don asked. No, Wesley said. Stay. I want to show you guys something. And if you see nothing and I see something, Ill be delighted to check into Central State Psychiatric. He opened his briefcase. Whoa! Robbie exclaimed. A pink Kindle! Sweet! Ive never seen one of those before! Now Im going to show you something else that youve never seen before, Wesley said. At least, I think I am. He plugged in the Kindle and turned it on. . What convinced Don Allman was the Collected Works of William Shakespeare from Ur 17,000. After downloading it at Dons requestbecause in this particular Ur, Shakespeare had died in 1620 instead of 1616the three men discovered two new plays. One was titled Two Ladies of Hampshire, a comedy that seemed to have been written soon after Julius Caesar. The other was a tragedy called A Black Fellow in London, written in 1619. Wesley opened this one and then (with some reluctance) handed Don the Kindle. Don Allman was ordinarily a ruddycheeked guy who smiled a lot, but as he paged through Acts I and II of A Black Fellow in London, he lost both his smile and his color. After twenty minutes, during which Wesley and Robbie sat watching him silently, he pushed the Kindle back to Wesley. He did it with the tips of his fingers, as if he really didnt want to touch it at all. So? Wesley asked. Whats the verdict? It could be an imitation, Don said, but of course there have always been scholars who claimed that Shakespeares plays werent written by Shakespeare. There are supporters of Christopher MarloweFrancis Baconeven the Earl of Darby Yeah, and James Frey wrote Macbeth, Wesley said. What do you think? I think this could be authentic Willie, Don said. He sounded on the verge of tears. Or laughter. Maybe both. I think its far too elaborate to be a joke. And if its a hoax, I have no idea how it works. He reached a finger to the Kindle, touched it lightly, then pulled it away. Id have to study both plays closely, with reference works at hand, to be more definite, butits got his lilt. Robbie Henderson, it turned out, had read almost all of John D. MacDonalds mystery and suspense novels. In the Ur 2,171,753 listing of MacDonalds works, he found seventeen novels in what was called the Dave Higgins series. All the titles had colors in them. That parts right, Robbie said, but the titles are all wrong. And John Ds series character was named Travis McGee, not Dave Higgins. Wesley downloaded one called The Blue Lament, hitting his credit card with another 4.50 charge, and pushed the Kindle over to Robbie once the book had been downloaded to the evergrowing library that was Wesleys Kindle. While Robbie read, at first from the beginning and then skipping around, Don went down to the main office and brought back three coffees. Before settling in behind his desk, he hung the littleused CONFERENCE IN PROGRESS DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. Robbie looked up, nearly as pale as Don had been after dipping into the neverwritten Shakespeare play about the African prince who is brought to London in chains. This is a lot like a Travis McGee novel called Pale Gray for Guilt, he said. Only Travis McGee lives in Fort Lauderdale, and this guy Higgins lives in Sarasota. McGee has a friend named Meyera guyand Higgins has a friend named Sarah He bent over the Kindle for a moment. Sarah Mayer. He looked at Wesley, his eyes showing too much white around the irises. Jesus Christ, and theres ten million of thesethese other worlds? Ten million, four hundred thousand and some, according to the UR BOOKS menu, Wesley said. I think exploring even one author fully would take more years than you have left in your life, Robbie. I could die today, Robbie Henderson said in a low voice. That thing could give me a freaking heart attack. He abruptly seized his Styrofoam cup of coffee and swallowed most of the contents, although the coffee was still steaming. Wesley, on the other hand, felt almost like himself again. But with the fear of madness removed, a host of questions were cramming his mind. Only one seemed completely relevant. So what do I do now? For one thing, Dan said, this has to stay a dead secret among the three of us. He turned to Robbie. Can you keep a secret? Say no and Ill have to kill you. I can keep one. But how about the people who sent it to you, Wes? Can they keep a secret? Will they? How do I know that when I dont know who they are? What credit card did you use when you ordered Little Pink here? MasterCard. Its the only one I use these days. Robbie pointed to the English Department computer terminal Wesley and Don shared. Go online, why dont you, and check your account. If thosethose urbooks came from Amazon, Ill be very surprised. Where else could they have come from? Wesley asked. Its their gadget, they sell the books for it. Also, it came in an Amazon box. It had the smile on it. And do they sell their gadget in Glowstick Pink? Robbie asked. Well, no. Dude, check your credit card account. . Wesley drummed his fingers on Dons Mighty Mouse mousepad as the offices outdated PC cogitated. Then he sat up straight and began to read. Well? Don asked. Share. According to this, Wesley said, my latest MasterCard purchase was a blazer from Mens Warehouse. A week ago. No downloaded books. Not even the ones you ordered the normal way? The Old Man and the Sea and Revolutionary Road? Nope. Robbie asked, What about the Kindle itself? Wesley scrolled back. Nothingnothingnothwait, here it He leaned forward until his nose was almost touching the screen. Ill be damned. What? Don and Robbie said it together. According to this, my purchase was denied. It says, wrong creditcard number. He considered. That could be. Im always reversing two of the digits, sometimes even when I have the damn card right beside the keyboard. Im a little dyslexic. But the order went through, anyway, Don said thoughtfully. Somehowto someone. Somewhere. What Ur does the Kindle say were in? Refresh me on that. Wesley went back to the relevant screen. 117,586. Only to enter that as a choice, you omit the comma. Don said, That might not be the Ur were living in, but I bet it was the Ur this Kindle came from. In that Ur, the MasterCard number you gave is the right one for the Wesley Smith that exists there. What are the odds of something like that happening? Robbie asked. I dont know, Don said, but probably a lot steeper than 10.4 million to one. Wesley opened his mouth to say something, and was interrupted by a fusillade of knocks on the door. They all jumped. Don Allman actually uttered a little scream. Who is it? Wesley asked, grabbing the Kindle and holding it protectively to his chest. Janitor, the voice on the other side of the door said. You folks ever going home? Its almost seven oclock, and I need to lock up the building. IIUr Functions When Wesley got back to his apartment after his confessional conversation with Don Allman, the message light on his answering machine was blinking. Two messages. He pushed the playback button, expecting to hear his mother complaining about her arthritis and making trenchant observations about how some sons actually called home more often than twice a month. After that would come a robocall from the MooreEcho, reminding himfor the dozenth timethat his subscription had lapsed. But it wasnt his mother and it wasnt the newspaper. When he heard Ellens voice, he paused in the act of reaching for a beer and listened bentover, with one hand outstretched in the fridges frosty glow. Hi, Wes, she said, sounding uncharacteristically unsure of herself. There was a long pause, long enough for Wesley to wonder if that was all there was going to be. In the background he heard hollow shouts and bouncing balls. She was in the gym, or had been when she left the message. Ive been thinking about us. Thinking that maybe we should try again. I miss you. And then, as if she had seen him rushing for the door But not yet. I need to think a little more aboutwhat you said. A pause. I was wrong to throw your book like that, but I was upset. Another pause, almost as long as the one after shed said hi. Theres a preseason tourney in Lexington this weekend. You know, the one they call the Bluegrass. Its a big deal. Maybe when I get back, we should talk. Please dont call me until then, because Ive got to concentrate on the girls. Defense is terrible, and Ive only got one girl who can actually shoot from the perimeter, andI dont know, this is probably a big mistake. Its not, he told the answering machine. His heart was pumping. He was still leaning into the open refrigerator, feeling the cold wafting out and striking his face, which seemed too hot. Believe me, its not. I had lunch with Suzanne Montanari the other day, and she says youre carrying around one of those electronic reading thingies. To me that seemedI dont know, like a sign that we should try again. She laughed, then screamed so loud that Wesley jumped. Chase down that loose ball! You either run or you sit! Then Sorry. Ive got to go. Dont call me. Ill call you. One way or the other. After the Bluegrass. Im sorry Ive been dodging your calls, butyou hurt my feelings, Wes. Coaches have feelings too, you know. I A beep interrupted her. The allotted message time had run out. Wesley uttered the word Norman Mailers publishers had refused to let him use in The Naked and the Dead. Then the second message started and she was back. I guess English teachers also have feelings. Suzanne says were not right for each other, she says were too far apart in our interests, butmaybe theres a middle ground. Im glad you got the reader. If its a Kindle, I think you can also use it to go to the Internet. II need to think about this. Dont call me. Im not quite ready. Goodbye. Wesley got his beer. He was smiling. Then he thought of the spite that had been living in his heart for the last month and stopped. He went to the calendar on the wall, and wrote PRESEASON TOURNEY across Saturday and Sunday. He paused, then drew a line through the days of the workweek after, a line on which he wrote ELLEN??? With that done he sat down in his favorite chair, drank his beer, and tried to read 2666. It was a crazy book, but sort of interesting. He wondered if it was available from the Kindle Store. . That evening, after replaying Ellens messages for the third time, Wesley turned on his Dell and went to the Athletic Department website to check for details concerning the Bluegrass PreSeason Invitational Tournament. He knew it would be a mistake to turn up there, and he had no intentions of doing so, but he did want to know who the Meerkats were playing, what their chances were, and when Ellen would be back. It turned out there were eight teams, seven from Division Two and only one from Division Three the Lady Meerkats of Moore. Wesley felt pride on Ellens behalf when he saw that, and was once more ashamed of his spitewhich she (lucky him!) knew nothing about. She actually seemed to think he had bought the Kindle as a way of sending her a message Maybe youre right, and maybe I can change. Maybe we both can. He supposed that if things went well, he would in time come to convince himself that was indeed so. On the website he saw that the team would leave for Lexington by bus at noon this coming Friday. They would practice at Rupp Arena that evening, and play their first gameagainst the Bulldogs of Truman State, Indianaon Saturday morning. Because the tourney was double elimination, they wouldnt be starting back until Sunday evening no matter what. Which meant he wouldnt hear from her until the following Monday at the earliest. It was going to be a long week. And, he told his computer (a good listener!), she may decide against trying again, anyway. I have to be prepared for that. Well, he could try. And he could also call that bitch Suzanne Montanari and tell her in no uncertain terms to stop campaigning against him. Why would she do that in the first place? She was a colleague, for Gods sake! Only if he did that, Suzanne might carry tales straight back to her friend (friend? who knew? who even suspected?) Ellen. It might be best to leave that aspect of things alone. Although the spite wasnt entirely out of his heart after all, it seemed. Now it was directed at Ms. Montanari. Never mind, he told his computer. George Herbert was wrong. Living well isnt the best revenge; loving well is. He started to turn off his computer, then remembered something Don Allman had said about Wesleys Kindle I thought they only came in white. Certainly the Henderson kids had been white, butwhat was the saying?one swallow didnt make a summer. After a few false starts (Google, full of information but essentially dumb as a post, lead him first to a discussion of whether or not the Kindle would ever be able to produce color images on its screen, a subject in which Wesleyas a bookreaderhad absolutely zero interest), he thought to search for Kindle Fan Sites. He found one called The Kindle Kandle. At the top was a bizarre photo of a woman in Quaker garb reading her Kindle by candlelight. Or possibly kandlelight. Here he read several postscomplaints, mostlyabout how the Kindle came in only one color, which one blogger called plain old smudgefriendly white. Below it was a reply suggesting that if the complainer persisted in reading with dirty fingers, he could buy a custom sleeve for his Kindle. In any color you like, she added. Grow up and show some creativity! Wesley turned off his computer, went into the kitchen, got another beer, and pulled his own Kindle from his briefcase. His pink Kindle. Except for the color, it looked exactly the same as the ones on the Kindle Kandle website. KindleKandle, bibblebabble, he said. Its just some flaw in the plastic. Perhaps, but why had it come oneday express delivery when he hadnt specified that? Because someone at the Kindle factory wanted to get rid of the pink mutant as soon as possible? That was ridiculous. They would have just thrown it away. Another victim of quality control. He thought of Ellens message again (by then he had it by heart). If its a Kindle, I think you can use it to go to the Internet, shed said. He wondered if it was true. He turned the Kindle on, and as he did so, he remembered there was something else odd about it no instruction booklet. He hadnt questioned that until now, because the device was so simple to use it practically ran itself (a creepy idea, when you considered it). He thought of going back to the Kindle Kandlers to find out if this was a true oddity, then dismissed the idea. He was just goofing around, after all, beginning to while away the hours between now and next Monday, when he might hear from Ellen again. I miss you, kiddo, he said, and was surprised to hear his voice waver. He did miss her. He hadnt realized how much until hed heard her voice. Hed been too wrapped up in his own wounded ego. Not to mention his sweaty little spite. Strange to think that spite might have earned him a second chance. Much stranger, when you got right down to it, than a pink Kindle. The screen titled Wesleys Kindle booted up. Listed were the books he had so far purchasedRevolutionary Road, by Richard Yates, and The Old Man and the Sea, by Hemingway. The gadget had come with The New Oxford American Dictionary preloaded. You only had to begin typing your word and the Kindle found it for you. It was, he thought, TiVo for smart people. The question was, could you access the Internet? He pushed the MENU button and was presented with a number of choices. The top one (of course) invited him to SHOP THE KINDLE STORE. But near the bottom was something called EXPERIMENTAL. That looked interesting. He moved the cursor to it, opened it, and read this at the top of the screen We are working on these experimental prototypes. Do you find them useful? Well, I dont know, Wesley said. What are they? The first prototype turned out to be BASIC WEB. So Ellen was right. The Kindle was apparently a lot more computerized than it looked at first blush. He glanced at the other experimental choices music downloads (big whoop) and texttospeech (which might come in handy if he were blind). He pushed the NEXT PAGE button to see if there were other experimental prototypes. There was one UR FUNCTIONS. Now what in the hell was that? Ur, so far as he knew, had only two meanings a city in the Old Testament, and a prefix meaning primitive or basic. The screen didnt help; although there were explanations for the other experimental functions, there was none for this. Well, there was one way to find out. He highlighted UR FUNCTIONS and selected it. A new menu appeared. There were three items UR BOOKS, UR NEWS ARCHIVE, and UR LOCAL (UNDER CONSTRUCTION). Huh, Wesley said. What in the world. He highlighted UR BOOKS, dropped his finger onto the select button, then hesitated. Suddenly his skin felt cold, as when hed been stilled by the sound of Ellens recorded voice while reaching into the fridge for a beer. He would later think, It was my own ur. Something basic and primitive deep inside, telling me not to do it. But was he not a modern man? One who now read off the computer? He was. He was. So he pushed the button. The screen blanked, then WELCOME TO UR BOOKS! appeared at the top of the screenand in red! The Kandlers were behind the technological curve, it seemed; there was Kolor on the Kindle. Beneath the welcome message was a picturenot of Charles Dickens or Eudora Welty, but of a large black tower. There was something ominous about it. Below, also in red, was an invitation to Select Author (your choice may not be available). And below that, a blinking cursor. What the hell, Wesley told the empty room. He licked his lips, which were suddenly dry, and typed ERNEST HEMINGWAY. The screen wiped itself clean. The function, whatever it was supposed to be, didnt seem to work. After ten seconds or so, Wesley reached for the Kindle, meaning to turn it off. Before he could push the slideswitch, the screen finally produced a new message. 10,438,721 URS SEARCHED 17,894 ERNEST HEMINGWAY TITLES DETECTED IF YOU DO NOT KNOW TITLE, SELECT UR OR RETURN TO UR FUNCTIONS MENU SELECTIONS FROM YOUR CURRENT UR WILL NOT BE DISPLAYED What in the name of God is this? Wesley whispered. Below the message, the cursor blinked. Above it, in small type (black, not red), was one further instruction NUMERIC ENTRY ONLY. NO COMMAS OR DASHES. YOUR CURRENT UR 117586. Wesley felt a strong urge (an ur urge!) to turn the pink Kindle off and drop it into the silverware drawer. Or into the freezer along with the ice cream and Stouffers frozen dinners, that might be even better. Instead, he used the teenytiny keypad to enter his birth date. 7191974 would do as well as any number, he reckoned. He hesitated again, then plunged the tip of his index finger down on the select button. When the screen blanked this time, he had to fight an impulse to get up from the kitchen chair he was sitting in and back away from the table. A crazy certainty had arisen in his mind a handor perhaps a clawwas going to swim up from the grayness of the Kindles screen, grab him by the throat, and yank him in. He would exist forever after in computerized grayness, floating around the microchips and between the many worlds of Ur. Then the screen produced type, plain old prosaic type, and the superstitious dread departed. He scanned the Kindles screen (the size of a small paperback) eagerly, although what he was eager for he had no idea. At the top was the authors full nameErnest Miller Hemingwayand his dates. Next came a long list of his published worksbut it was wrong. The Sun Also Rises was thereFor Whom the Bell Tollsthe short storiesThe Old Man and the Sea, of coursebut there were also three or four titles Wesley didnt recognize, and except for minor essays, he thought he had read all of Hemingways considerable output. Also He examined the dates again and saw that the deathdate was wrong. Hemingway had died on July 2, 1961, of a selfinflicted gunshot wound. According to the screen, he had gone to that great library in the sky on August 19, 1964. Birth dates wrong, too, Wesley muttered. He was running his free hand through his hair, pulling it into exotic new shapes. Im almost sure it is. Should be 1899, not 1897. He moved the cursor down to one of the titles he didnt know Cortlands Dogs. This was some lunatic computer programmers idea of a joke, pretty much had to be, but Cortlands Dogs at least sounded like a Hemingway title. Wesley selected it. The screen blanked, then produced a book cover. The jacket imagein black and whiteshowed barking dogs surrounding a scarecrow. In the background, shoulders slumped in a posture of weariness or defeat (or both), was a hunter with a gun. The eponymous Cortland, surely. In the woods of upper Michigan, James Cortland deals with the infidelity of his wife and his own mortality. When three dangerous criminals appear at the old Cortland farm, Papas most famous hero is faced with a terrible choice. Rich in event and symbolism, Ernest Hemingways final novel was awarded the Pulitzer Prize shortly before his death. 7.50 Below the thumbnail, Kindle asked BUY THIS BOOK? Y N. Total bullshit, Wesley whispered as he highlighted Y and pushed the select button. The screen blanked again, then flashed a new message Ur novels may not be disseminated as according to all applicable Paradox Laws. Do you agree? Y N. Smilingas befitted someone who got the joke but was going along with it anywayWesley selected Y. The screen blanked, then presented new information THANK YOU, WESLEY! YOUR UR NOVEL HAS BEEN ORDERED YOUR ACCOUNT WILL BE DEBITED 7.50 REMEMBER UR NOVELS TAKE LONGER TO DOWNLOAD ALLOW 24 MINS Wesley returned to the screen headed Wesleys Kindle. The same items were thereRevolutionary Road, The Old Man and the Sea, the New Oxford Americanand he was sure that wouldnt change. There was no Hemingway novel called Cortlands Dogs, not in this world or any other. Nonetheless, he got up and went to the phone. It was picked up on the first ring. Don Allman, his officemate said. And yes, I was indeed born a ramblin man. No hollow gymsounds in the background this time; just the barbaric yawps of Dons three sons, who sounded as though they might be dismantling the Allman residence board by board. Don, its Wesley. Ah, Wesley! I havent seen you ingee, it must be three hours! From deeper within the lunatic asylum where Wesley assumed Don lived with his family, there came what sounded like a deathscream. Don Allman was not perturbed. Jason, dont throw that at your brother. Be a good little troll and go watch SpongeBob. Then, to Wesley What can I do for you, Wes? Advice on your lovelife? Tips on improving your sexual performance and stamina? A title for your novel in progress? I have no novel in progress and you know it, Wesley snapped. But its novels I want to talk about. You know Hemingways oeuvre, dont you? I love it when you talk dirty. Do you or dont you? Of course. But not as well as you, I hope. Youre the 20th century American lit man, after all; I stick to the days when writers wore wigs, took snuff, and said picturesque things like ecod and damme. Whats on your mind? To your knowledge, did Hemingway ever write any fiction about dogs? Don considered while another young child commenced shrieking. Wes, are you okay? You sound a little Just answer the question. Did he or didnt he? Highlight Y or N, Wesley thought. All right, Don said. So far as I can say without consulting my trusty computer, he didnt. I remember him once claiming the Batista partisans clubbed his pet pooch to death, thoughhows that for a factoid? You know, when he was in Cuba. He took it as a sign that he and Mary should beat feet to Florida, and they didposthaste. You dont happen to remember that dogs name, do you? I think I do. Id want to doublecheck it on the Internet, but I think it was Cortland. Like the apple? Thanks, Don. His lips felt numb. Ill see you tomorrow. Wes, are you sure youreFRANKIE, PUT THAT DOWN! DONT There was a crash. Shit. I think that was Delft. I gotta go, Wes. See you tomorrow. Right. Wesley went back to the kitchen table. He saw that a fresh selection now appeared on the contents page of his Kindle. A novel (or something) called Cortlands Dogs had been downloaded from Where, exactly? Some other plane of reality called Ur (or possibly UR) 7,191,974? Wesley no longer had the strength to call this idea ridiculous and push it away. He did, however, have enough to go to the refrigerator and get a beer. Which he needed. He opened it, drank half in five long swallows, belched. He sat down, feeling a little better. He highlighted his new acquisition (7.50 would be mighty cheap for an undiscovered Hemingway, he reckoned) and a title page came up. The next page was a dedication To Sy, and to Mary, with love. Then this Chapter 1 A mans life was five dogs long, Cortland believed. The first was the one that taught you. The second was the one you taught. The third and fourth were the ones you worked. The last was the one that outlived you. That was the winter dog. Cortlands winter dog had no name. He thought of it only as the scarecrow dog Liquid rose up in Wesleys throat. He ran for the sink, bent over it, and struggled to keep the beer down. His gorge settled, and instead of turning on the water to rinse puke down the drain, he cupped his hands under the flow and splashed it on his sweaty skin. That was better. Then he went back to the Kindle and stared down at it. A mans life was five dogs long, Cortland believed. Somewhereat some college a lot more ambitious than Moore of Kentuckythere was a computer programmed to read books and identify the writers by their stylistic tics and tocks, which were supposed to be as unique as fingerprints or snowflakes. Wesley had a vague recollection that this computer program had been used to identify the author of a pseudonymous novel called Primary Colors; the program had whiffled through thousands of writers in a matter of hours or days and had come up with a newsmagazine columnist named Joe Klein, who later owned up to his literary paternity. Wesley thought that if he submitted Cortlands Dogs to that computer, it would spit out Ernest Hemingways name. In truth, he didnt think he needed a computer. He picked up the Kindle with hands that were now shaking badly. What are you? he asked. The Kindle did not answer. IVNews Archive They werent done, couldnt be done. Not yet. Wesley in particular was anxious to press on. Although he hadnt slept for more than three hours at a stretch in days, he felt wide awake, energized. He and Robbie walked back to his apartment while Don went home to help his wife put the boys to bed. When that was done, hed join them at Wesleys place for an extended skullsession. Wesley said hed order some food. Good, Don said, but be careful. UrChinese just doesnt taste the same. For a wonder, Wesley found he could actually laugh. So this is what an English instructors apartment looks like, Robbie said, gazing around. Man, I dig all the books. Good, Wesley said. I loan to people who bring back. Keep it in mind. I will. My parents have never been, you know, great readers. Few magazines, some diet books, a selfhelp manual or twothats all. I might have been the same way, if not for you. Just bangin my head out on the football field, you know, with nothing ahead except maybe teaching PE in GilesCounty. Thats in Tennessee. Yeehaw. Wesley was touched by this. Probably because hed been hurled through so many emotional hoops just lately. Thanks, he said. Just remember, theres nothing wrong with a good loud yeehaw. Thats part of who you are, too. Both parts are equally valid. He thought of Ellen, ripping Deliverance out of his hands and hurling across the room. And why? Because she hated books? No, because he hadnt been listening when she needed him to. Hadnt it been Fritz Leiber, the great fantasist and science fiction writer, who had called books the scholars mistress? And when Ellen needed him, hadnt he had been in the arms of his other lover, the one who made no demands (other than on his vocabulary) and always took him in? Wes? What were those other things on the UR FUNCTIONS menu? At first Wesley didnt know what the kid was talking about. Then he remembered that there had been a couple of other items. Hed been so fixated on the BOOKS submenu that he had forgotten the other two. Well, lets see, he said, and turned the Kindle on. Every time he did this, he expected either the EXPERIMENTAL menu or the UR FUNCTIONS menu to be gonethat would also happen in a fantasy story or a Twilight Zone episodebut they were still right there. UR NEWS ARCHIVE and UR LOCAL, Robbie said. Huh. UR LOCALs under construction. Better watch out, traffic fines double. What? Never mind, just goofin witcha. Try the news archive. Wesley selected it. The screen blanked. After a few moments, a message appeared. WELCOME TO THE NEWS ARCHIVE! ONLY THE NEW YORK TIMES IS AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME YOUR PRICE IS 1.004 DOWNLOADS 1050 DOWNLOADS 100800 DOWNLOADS SELECT WITH CURSOR YOUR ACCOUNT WILL BE BILLED Wesley looked at Robbie, who shrugged. I cant tell you what to do, but if my credit card wasnt being billedin this world, anywayId spend the hundred. Wesley thought he had a point, although he wondered what the other Wesley (if indeed there was one) was going to think when he opened his next MasterCard bill. He highlighted the 100800 line and pushed the select button. This time the Paradox Laws didnt come up. Instead, the new message invited him to CHOOSE DATE AND UR. USE APPROPRIATE FIELDS. You do it, he said, and pushed the Kindle across the kitchen table to Robbie. This was getting easier to do, and he was glad. An obsession about keeping the Kindle in his own hands was a complication he didnt need, understandable as it was. Robbie thought for a moment, then typed in January 21, 2009. In the Ur field he selected 1000000. Ur one million, he said. Why not? And pushed the button. The screen went blank, then produced a message reading ENJOY YOUR SELECTION! A moment later the front page of the New York Times appeared.


They bent over the screen, reading silently, until there was a knock at the door. Thatll be Don, Wesley said. Ill let him in. Robbie Henderson didnt reply. He was still transfixed. Getting cold out there, Don said as he came in. And theres a wind knocking all the leaves off the He studied Wesleys face. What? Or should I say, what now? Come and see, Wesley said. Don went into Wesleys booklined living roomstudy, where Robbie remained bent over the Kindle. The kid looked up and turned the screen so Don could see it. There were blank patches where the photos should have gone, each with the message IMAGE UNAVAILABLE, but the headline was big and black NOW ITS HER TURN. And below it, the subhead Hillary Clinton Takes Oath, Assumes Role as 44th President. Looks like she made it after all, Wesley said. At least in Ur 1,000,000. And check out who shes replacing, Robbie said, and pointed to the name. It was Albert Arnold Gore. . An hour later, when the doorbell rang, they didnt jump but rather looked around like men startled from a dream. Wesley went downstairs and paid the delivery guy, who had arrived with a loaded pizza from Harrys and a sixpack of Pepsi. They ate at the kitchen table, bent over the Kindle. Wesley put away three slices himself, a personal best, with no awareness of what he was eating. They didnt use up the eight hundred downloads they had orderednowhere near itbut in the next four hours they skimmed enough stories from various Urs to make their heads ache. Wesley felt as though his mind were aching. From the nearly identical looks he saw on the faces of the other twopale cheeks, avid eyes in bruised sockets, crazed hairhe guessed he wasnt alone. Looking into one alternate reality would have been challenging enough; here were over ten million, and although most appeared to be similar, not one was exactly the same. The inauguration of the fortyfourth President of the United States was only one example, but a powerful one. They checked it in two dozen different Urs before getting tired and moving on. Fully seventeen front pages on January 21st of 2009 announced Hillary Clinton as the new President. In fourteen of them, Bill Richardson of New Mexico was her vice president. In two, it was Joe Biden. In one it was a Senator none of them had heard of Linwood Speck of New Jersey. He always says no when someone else wins the top spot, Don said. Who always says no? Robbie asked. Obama? Yeah. He always gets asked, and he always says no. Its in character, Wesley said. And while events change, character never seems to. You cant say that for sure, Don said. We have a miniscule sample compared to thethe He laughed feebly. You know, the whole thing. All the worlds of Ur. Barack Obama had been elected in six Urs. Mitt Romney had been elected once, with John McCain as his running mate. He had run against Obama, who had been tapped after Hillary was killed in a motorcade accident late in the campaign. They saw not a single mention of Sarah Palin. Wesley wasnt surprised. He thought that if they stumbled on her, it would be more by luck than by probability, and not just because Mitt Romney showed up more often as the Republican nominee than John McCain did. Palin had always been an outsider, a longshot, the one nobody expected. Robbie wanted to check the Red Sox. Wesley felt it was a waste of time, but Don came down on the kids side, so Wesley agreed. The two of them checked the sports pages for October in ten different Urs, plugging in dates from 1918 to 2009. This is depressing, Robbie said after the tenth try. Don Allman agreed. Why? Wesley asked. They win lots of times. But theres no rhyme or reason to it, Robbie said. And no curse, Don said. They always win just enough to avoid it. Which is sort of boring. What curse? Wesley was mystified. Don opened his mouth to explain, then sighed. Never mind, he said. It would take too long, and you wouldnt get it, anyway. Look on the bright side, Robbie said. The Yankees are always there, so it isnt all luck. Yeah, Don said glumly. The militaryindustrial complex of the sporting world. Sohree. Does anyone want that last slice? Don and Wes shook their heads. Robbie scarfed it and said, Why not peek at the Big Casino, before we all decide were nuts and check ourselves into CentralState? What Big Casino might that be, Yoda? Don asked. The JFK assassination, Robbie said. Mr. Tollman says that was the seminal event of the twentieth century, even more important than the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo. I thought seminal events usually happened in bed, but hey, I came to college to learn. Mr. Tollmans in the History Department. I know who Hugh Tollman is, Don said. Hes a goddam commie, and he never laughs at my jokes. But he could be right about the Kennedy assassination, Wesley said. Lets look. . They pursued the JohnKennedyinDallas thread until nearly eleven oclock, while college students hooted unnoticed below them, on their way to and from the local beerpits. They checked over seventy versions of the New York Times for November 23rd, 1963, and although the story was never the same, one fact seemed undeniable to all of them whether he missed Kennedy, wounded Kennedy, or killed Kennedy, it was always Lee Harvey Oswald, and he always acted alone. The Warren Report was right, Don said. For once the bureaucracy did its job. Im gobsmacked. In some Urs, that day in November had passed with no assassination stories, either attempted or successful. Sometimes Kennedy decided not to visit Dallas after all. Sometimes he did, and his motorcade was uneventful; he arrived at the Dallas Trade Mart, gave his hundreddollaraplate luncheon speech (God, things were cheap back in the day, werent they? Robbie remarked), and flew off into the sunset. This was the case in Ur 88,416. Wesley began to plug in more dates from that Ur. What he saw filled him with awe and horror and wonder and sorrow. In Ur 88,416, Kennedy had seen the folly of Vietnam and had pulled out over the vehement objections of Robert McNamara, his Secretary of Defense. McNamara quit and was replaced by a man named Bruce Palmer, who resigned his rank of U.S. Army general to take the job. The civil rights turmoil was milder than when Lyndon Johnson was President, and there were almost no riots in the American citiespartly because in Ur 88,416, Martin Luther King wasnt assassinated in Memphis or anywhere else. In this Ur, JFK was elected for a second term. In 1968, Edmund Muskie of Maine won the Presidency in a landslide over Nelson Rockefeller. By then the outgoing President was hardly able to walk without the aid of crutches, and said his first priority was going to be major back surgery. Robbie ignored that and fixed on a story that had to do with Kennedys last White House party. The Beatles had played, but the concert ended early when drummer Pete Best suffered a seizure and had to be taken to Washington DC Hospital. Holy shit, Don whispered. What happened to Ringo? Guys, Wesley said, yawning, I have to go to bed. Im dying here. Check one more, Robbie said. 4,121,989. Its my birthday. Gotta be lucky. But it wasnt. When Wesley selected the Ur and added a dateJanuary 20, 1973not 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 Dons. No, he said. I dont think I can bear it. Bear what? Robbie nearly shouted. Didnt Hugh Tollman cover the Cuban Missile Crisis? Don asked. Or didnt you get that far yet? What missile crisis? Was it something to do with Castro? Don was looking at Wesley. I dont really want to see, either, he said, but I wont sleep tonight unless I make sure, and I dont think you will, either. Okay, Wesley said, and thoughtnot for the first time, eitherthat curiosity rather than rage was the true bane of the human spirit. Youll 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 didnt. 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. Its like that song saysI dont 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 wasnt quite steady. Robbies 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 Id 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 Wesleys 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 ParadiseCity. I cant tell you what to doits your gadgetbut if it was mine, Id get rid of it, Don said. Itll suck you in. Wesley thought of telling him hed already had this idea, but didnt. Well talk about it tomorrow. Nope, Don said. Im driving the wife and kids to Frankfort for a wonderful threeday weekend at my inlaws. Suzy Montanaris taking my classes. And after this little seminar tonight, Im 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 Nans Place. Isnt that a little noisy? Wesley asked. Susan and Nans was the local caf, 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 itll 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. Im sure he wouldnt want you to take it personally. And hes probably right about the Kindle, you know. Its fascinatingtoo fascinatingbut useless in any practical sense. Robbie stared at him, wideeyed. Youre 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, hed probably be reading more of Cortlands 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. Theyd 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. Itd probably violate the Paradox Lawswhatever 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. Youre a good dude, Wesley. They were walking in the direction of Robbies apartment now, the leaves rattling around their feet, a quarter moon flying through the winddriven 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 Josies on the team. Josie Quinn from class? Of course I know Josie. The one whod sounded like a kindly anthropologist when theyd 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 thats why we broke up. Umdoes 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 wouldnt have told them; briefing the team on your lovelife 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? Were going in the right direction. Gnight, Wes. Im gonna sleep in tomorrowno classes on Fridaybut if you drop by Susan and Nans 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. Id say the pleasure was all mine, but I have to think about that. . Instead of reading urHemingway 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 tove been an expensive present. Too bad it was going to waste. I could still write a book, he thought. Just because I havent in any of the other Urs doesnt mean I couldnt 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 Im 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 saw them on a movie screen. They were big up thereoften beautiful, toobut they were still only shadows thrown by light. Maybe the Urworlds were like that, too. What seemed real in this postmidnight 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. VUr Local (Under Construction) He took a long hot shower, shaved, dressed, and decided to go down to Susan and Nans for either a late breakfast or an early lunch, whichever looked better on the menu. As for Robbie, Wesley decided hed let the kid sleep. Hed 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. Hed wave. Ellen wouldnt see him, but he'd do it anyway. He took his briefcase without even thinking about it. . He ordered the Susans 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, hed taken out the Kindle and was reading Cortlands Dogs. It was Hemingway, all right, and one terrific story. Kindle, isnt it? the waitress asked. I got one for Christmas, and I love it. Im reading my way through all of Jodi Picoults books. Oh, probably not all of them, Wesley said. Huh? Why not? Shes probably got another one done already. Thats all I meant. And James Pattersons 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 UrHemingway novel without really thinking about it. Feeling guilty about what he was reading? Afraid the waitress might get a look and start screaming Thats not real Hemingway? Ridiculous. But just owning the pink Kindle made him feel a little bit like a crook. It wasnt his, after all, and the stuff he had downloaded wasnt really his, either, because he wasnt the one paying for it. Maybe no one is, he thought, but didnt 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 hadnt 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 didnt 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 MOOREECHO 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? Wasnt 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 wasnt 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 PREARCHIVE! YOUR PRICE IS 40.004 DOWNLOADS 350.0010 DOWNLOADS 2500.00100 DOWNLOADS Wesley put his fork on his plate and sat frowning at the screen. Not only was the local paper Paradox Lawprotected, it was a hell of a lot more expensive. Why? And what the hell was a prearchive? To Wesley, that sounded like a paradox in itself. Or an oxymoron. Well, its under construction, he said. Traffic fines double and so do download expenses. Thats the explanation. Plus, Im 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 didnt get it. Then he did, and the world suddenly turned itself up to superbright, as if some supernatural being had cranked the rheostat controlling the daylight. And all the noises in the cafthe clash of forks, the rattle of plates, the steady babble of conversationseemed too loud. My God, he whispered. No wonder its 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 Were 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 spraypainted on it. Wesley became aware that people in the caf 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 didnt have much use for the student body as a wholethe standard townversusgown thingbut they loved the Lady Meerkats because everybody loves a winner. The tourneys results, preseason or not, would be frontpage news in Mondays Echo. If they won, he could buy Ellen a victory gift, and if they lost, he could buy her a consolation present. Im a winner either way, he said, and entered Mondays date November 23rd, 2009. The Kindle thought for a long time, then produced a newspaper front page. The date was Mondays 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 Hendersons apartment while Robbiewhod been up when Wesley came hammering at the door but was still wearing the teeshirt and basketball shorts he slept instared 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, thats wrong! Too slow! Ill call her now. Thats what Relax, Mr. SmithWes, I mean. How can I relax? Dont you see that thing? Are you blind? No, but you still have to relax. Pardon the expression, but youre losing your shit, and people cant think productively when theyre doing that. But Take a deep breath. And remind yourself that according to this, weve got almost sixty hours. Easy for you to say. Your girlfriend isnt going to be on that bus when it starts back to Then he stopped, because that wasnt so. Josie Quinn was on the team, and according to Robbie, he and Josie had a thing going on. Im sorry, he said. I saw the headline and freaked. I didnt 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. Im pretty freaked, too, Robbie admitted, and for a moment they studied the screen in silence. According to Wesleys Kindle, Mondays 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 wasnt a story at all, only an item. Even in his distress, Wesley knew why. The accident had happenedno, was going to happenat just short of nine PM on Sunday night. Too late to report any details, although probably if they heated up Robbies 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 Echos Tuesday story was more complete, but the headline was even worse DEATH TOLL RISES TO 10 TOWN AND COLLEGE MOURN Is Josie Wesley began. Yeah, Robbie said. Survives the crash, dies on Monday. Christ. According to Antonia Toni Burrell, one of the Meerkat cheerleaders, and one of the lucky ones to survive Sunday nights horrific buscrash with only cuts and bruises, the celebration was still going on, the Bluegrass Trophy still being passed handtohand. We were singing We Are the Champions for the twentieth time or so, she said from the hospital in Bowling Green, where most of the survivors were taken. Coach turned around and yelled for us to keep it down, and thats when it happened. According to State Police Captain Moses Arden, the bus was traveling on Route 139, the Princeton Road, and was about two miles west of Cadiz when an SUV driven by Candy Rymer of Montgomery struck it. Ms.Rymer was traveling at a high rate of speed west along Highway 80, Captain Arden said, and struck the bus at the intersection. The busdriver, Herbert Allison, 58, of Moore apparently saw Ms. Rymers vehicle at the last moment and tried to swerve. That swerve, coupled with the impact, drove the bus into the ditch, where it overturned and exploded There was more, but neither of them wanted to read it. Okay, Robbie said. Lets think about this. First, can we be sure its true? Maybe not, Wesley said. But Robbiecan we afford to take the chance? No, Robbie said. No, I guess we cant. Of course we cant. But Wes, if we call the police, they wont believe us. You know that. Well show them the Kindle! Well show them the story! But even to himself, Wesley sounded deflated. Okay, how about this. Ill tell Ellen. Even if she wont believe me, she might agree to hold the bus for fifteen minutes or so, or change the route this guy Allisons planning to take. Robbie considered. Yeah. Worth a try. Wesley took his phone out of his briefcase. Robbie had gone back to the story, using the NEXT PAGE button to access the rest. The phone rang twicethree timesfour. Wesley was preparing to deliver his message to voicemail when Ellen answered. Wesley, I cant talk to you now. I thought you understood that Ellen, listen but if you got my message, you know were going to talk. In the background he could hear raucous, excited girlsJosie would be among themand lots of loud music. Yes, I did get the message, but we have to talk n No! Ellen said. We dont. Im not going to take your calls this weekend, and Im not going to listen to your messages. Her voice softened. And honevery one you leave is going to make it harder. For us, I mean. Ellen, you dont understa Goodbye, Wes. Ill talk to you next week. Do you wish us luck? Ellen, please! Ill take that as a yes, she said. And you know what? I guess I still care about you, even though you are a lug. With that she was gone. . He poised his finger over the redial buttonthen made himself not push it. It wouldnt help. Ellen was wearing her mywayorthehighway hat. It was insane, but there it was. She wont talk to me except on her schedule. What she doesnt realize is that after Sunday night she may not have a schedule. Youll have to call Ms. Quinn. In his current state, the girls first name escaped him. Josied think I was prankin on her, Robbie said. A story like that, any girld think I was prankin on her. He was still studying the Kindles screen. Want to know something? The woman who caused the accidentwho will cause ithardly gets hurt at all. Ill bet you next semesters tuition she was just as drunk as a goddam skunk. Wesley hardly heard this. Tell Josie that Ellen has to take my call. Have her say its not about us. Tell her to say its an emer Dude, Robbie said. Slow down and listen. Are you listening? Wesley nodded, but what he heard most clearly was his own pounding heart. Point one, Josie would still think I was prankin on her. Point two, she might think we both were. Point three, I dont think shed go to Coach Silverman anyway, given the mood that Coach has been in latelyand she gets even worse on game trips, Josie says. Robbie sighed. You have to understand about Josie. Shes sweet, shes smart, shes sexy as hell, but shes also a timid little mousie. Its sort of what I like about her. That probably says heaps of good things about your character, Robbie, but youll pardon me if right now I dont give a tomcats ass. Youve told me what wont work; do you have any idea what might? Thats point four. With a little luck, we wont have to tell anybody about this. Which is good, since they wouldnt believe it. Elucidate. First, we need to use another one of your Echo downloads. Robbie punched in November 25th, 2009. Another girl, a cheerleader who had been horribly burned in the explosion, had died, raising the deathtoll to eleven. Although the Echo didnt come right out and say so, more were likely to die before the week was out. Robbie only gave this story a quick scan. What he was looking for was a boxed story on the lower half of page one CANDACE RYMER CHARGED WITH MULTIPLE COUNTS OF VEHICULAR HOMICIDE There was a gray square in the middle of the storyher picture, Wesley assumed, only the pink Kindle didnt seem able to reprint news photographs. But it didnt matter, because now he got it. It wasnt the bus they had to stop; it was the woman who was going to hit the bus. She was point four. VICandy Rymer At five oclock on a gray Sunday afternoonas the Lady Meerkats were cutting down basketball nets in a nottoodistant part of the stateWesley Smith and Robbie Henderson were sitting in Wesleys modest Chevy Malibu, watching the door of a roadhouse in Eddyville, twenty miles north of Cadiz. The parking lot was oiled dirt and mostly empty. There was almost certainly a TV inside The Broken Windmill, but Wesley guessed discriminating tipplers would rather do their drinking and NFLwatching at home. You didnt have to go inside the joint to know it was a hole. Candy Rymers first stop had been bad, but this second one was worse. Parked slightly crooked (and blocking what appeared to be the fire exit) was a filthy, dingedup Ford Explorer with two bumper stickers on the back. MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT THE STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY, one read. The other was even more succinct I BRAKE FOR JACK DANIELS. Maybe we oughtta do it right here, Robbie said. While shes inside slopping it up and watching the Titans. It was a tempting idea, but Wesley shook his head. Well wait. Shes got one more stop to make. Hopson, remember? Thats miles from here. Right, Wesley said. But weve got time to kill, and were going to kill it. Why? Because what were up to is changing the future. Or trying to, at least. We have no idea how tough that is. Waiting as long as possible improves our chances. Wesley, that is one drunk chick. She was drunk when she got out of that first jukejoint in Central City, and shes going to be a lot drunker when she comes out of yonder shack. I cant see her getting her car repaired in time to rendezvous with the girls bus forty miles from here. And what if we break down while were trying to follow her to her last stop? Wesley hadnt considered this. Now he did. My instincts say wait, but if you have a strong feeling that we should do it now, we will. The only strong feeling I have is a scaredtofreakindeath feeling, Robbie said. He sat up. Too late to do anything else, anyway. Here she comes, Miss America. Candy Rymer emerged from The Broken Windmill in a moderate weave. She dropped her purse, bent down to get it, almost fell over, cursed, picked it up, laughed, and then continued to where her Explorer was parked, digging her keys out as she went. Her face was puffy, not quite hiding the remains of what must once have been very good looks. Her hair, blond on top and black at the roots, hung around her cheeks in lank curls. Her belly pooched out the front of elasticwaist jeans just below the hem of what had to be a Kmart smock top. She got in her beattoshit SUV, kicked the engine into life (it sounded in desperate need of a tuneup) and drove forward into the roadhouses fire door. There was a crunch. Then her backup lights came on and she reversed so fast that for one sickening moment Wesley thought she was going to hit his Malibu, crippling it and leaving them on foot as she drove off toward her appointment in Samarra. But she stopped in time and peeled onto the highway without pausing to look for traffic. A moment later Wesley was following as she headed east toward Hopson. And the intersection where the Lady Meerkats bus would arrive in four hours. .