But was he not a modern man? One who now read off the computer?

He was. He was. So he pushed it.

The screen blanked, then WELCOME TO UR BOOKS! appeared at the top … and in red! The Kandlers were behind the technological curve, it seemed; there was Kolor on the Kindle. Beneath the welcome message was a picture – not 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, didn’t seem to work. After ten seconds or so, Wesley reached for the Kindle, meaning to turn it off. Before he could push the slide-switch, 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 asked the empty room. 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 dinner, 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 works … but it was wrong. The Sun Also Rises was there … For Whom the Bell Tolls … the short stories … The Old Man and the Sea, of course … but 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. Also …

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 eighteen ninety-nine, not eighteen ninety-seven.’

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, probably.

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 Wesley’s Kindle screen. 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 officemate 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 board.

‘Don, it’s Wesley.’

‘Ah, Wesley! I haven’t seen you in … gee, 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 death scream. Don Allman was not perturbed. ‘Jason, don’t 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 love life? 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 it’s novels I want to talk about. You know Hemingway’s oeuvre, don’t you?’

‘I love it when you talk dirty.’

‘Do you or don’t you?’

‘Of course. But not as well as you, I hope. You’re the twentieth-century American lit man, after all; I stick to the days when writers wore wigs, took snuff, and said picturesque things like ecod. What’s 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 didn’t he?’ Highlight Y or N, Wesley thought.

‘All right,’ Don said. ‘So far as I can say without consulting my trusty computer, he didn’t. I remember him once claiming the Batista partisans clubbed his pet pooch to death, though – how’s 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 did – posthaste.’

‘You don’t happen to remember that dog’s name, do you?’

‘I think I do. I’d want to double-check it on the Internet, but I think it was Negrita. Something like that. Sounds slightly racist to me, but what do I know?’

‘Thanks, Don.’ His lips felt numb. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Wes, are you sure you’re— FRANKIE, PUT THAT DOWN! DON’T—’ 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 had appeared on the contents page of his Kindle. A novel (or something) called Cortland’s Dogs had been downloaded from …

Where, exactly? Some other plane of reality called Ur (or possibly UR) 7191974?