UR

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 Stouffer’s frozen dinners, that might be even better. Instead, he used the teeny-tiny 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 hand—or perhaps a claw—was going to swim up from the grayness of the Kindle’s 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 Kindle’s screen (the size of a small paperback) eagerly, although what he was eager for he had no idea.
    At the top was the author’s full name—Ernest Miller Hemingway—and his dates. Next came a long list of his published workscbut it was wrong. The Sun Also Rises was therec For Whom the Bell Tolls cthe short storiesc The Old Man and the Sea , of coursecbut there were also three or four titles Wesley didn’t recognize, and except for minor essays, he thought he had read all of Hemingway’s considerable output. Alsoc
    He examined the dates again and saw that the death-date was wrong. Hemingway had died on July 2, 1961, of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. According to the screen, he had gone to that great library in the sky on August 19, 1964.
    “Birth date’s wrong, too,” Wesley muttered. He was running his free hand through his hair, pulling it into exotic new shapes. “I’m almost sure it is. Should be 1899, not 1897.”
    He moved the cursor down to one of the titles he didn’t know: Cortland’s Dogs . This was some lunatic computer programmer’s idea of a joke, pretty much had to be, but Cortland’s Dogs at least sounded like a Hemingway title. Wesley selected it.
    The screen blanked, then produced a book cover. The jacket image—in black and white—showed 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, “Papa’s” most famous hero is faced with a terrible choice. Rich in event and symbolism, Ernest Hemingway’s 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.
    Smiling—as befitted someone who got the joke but was going along with it anyway—Wesley 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 2-4 MINS
     
     
     
    Wesley returned to the screen headed Wesley’s Kindle. The same items were there—Revolutionary Road, The Old Man and the Sea , the New Oxford American—and he was sure that wouldn’t change. There was no Hemingway novel called Cortland’s 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 office-mate said. “And yes, I was indeed born a ramblin’ man.” No hollow gym-sounds in the background this time; just the barbaric yawps of Don’s three sons, who sounded as though they might be dismantling the Allman residence board by