UR - By Stephen King Page 0,16
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 cities—partly because in Ur 88,416, Martin Luther King wasn’t 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 Kennedy’s 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. I’m dying here.”
“Check one more,” Robbie said. “4,121,989. It’s my birthday. Gotta be lucky.”
But it wasn’t. When Wesley selected the Ur and added a date—January 20, 1973—not quite at random, what came up instead of ENJOY YOUR SELECTION was this: NO TIMES THIS UR AFTER NOVEMBER 19, 1962.
“Oh my God,” Wesley said, and clapped a hand to his mouth. “Dear sweet God.”
“What?” Robbie asked. “What is it?”
“I think I know,” Don said. He tried to take the pink Kindle.
Wesley, who guessed he had gone pale (but probably not as pale as he felt inside), put a hand over Don’s. “No,” he said. “I don’t think I can bear it.”
“Bear what?” Robbie nearly shouted.
“Didn’t Hugh Tollman cover the Cuban Missile Crisis?” Don asked. “Or didn’t you get that far yet?”
“What missile crisis? Was it something to do with Castro?”
Don was looking at Wesley. “I don’t really want to see, either,” he said, “but I won’t sleep tonight unless I make sure, and I don’t think you will, either.”
“Okay,” Wesley said, and thought—not for the first time, either—that curiosity rather than rage was the true bane of the human spirit. “You’ll have to do it, though. My hands are trembling too much.”
Don filled in the fields for NOVEMBER 19, 1962. The Kindle told him to enjoy his selection, but he didn’t. None of them did. The headlines were stark and huge:
NYC TOLL SURPASSES 6 MILLION
MANHATTAN DECIMATED BY RADIATION
RUSSIA SAID TO BE OBLITERATED
LOSSES IN EUROPE AND ASIA “INCALCULABLE”
CHINESE LAUNCH 40 ICBMS
“Turn it off,” Robbie said in a small, sick voice. “It’s like that song says—I don’t wanna see no more.”
Don said, “Look on the bright side, you two. It seems we dodged the bullet in most of the Urs, including this one.” But his voice wasn’t quite steady.
“Robbie’s right,” Wesley said. He had discovered that the final issue of the New York Times in Ur 4,121,989 was only three pages long. And every article was death. “Turn it off. I wish I’d never seen the damn thing in the first place.”
“Too late now,” Robbie said. And how right he was.
.
They went downstairs together and stood on the sidewalk in front of Wesley’s building. Main Street
was almost deserted now. The rising wind moaned around the buildings and rattled late November leaves along the sidewalks. A trio of drunk students was stumbling back toward Fraternity Row, singing what might have been “ParadiseCity.”
“I can’t tell you what to do—it’s your gadget—but if it was mine, I’d get rid of it,” Don said. “It’ll suck you in.”
Wesley thought of telling him he’d already had this idea, but didn’t. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Nope,” Don said. “I’m driving the wife and kids to Frankfort for a wonderful three-day weekend at my in-laws’. Suzy Montanari’s taking my classes. And after this little seminar tonight, I’m delighted to be getting away. Robbie? Drop you somewhere?”
“Thanks, but no need. I share an apartment with a couple of other guys two blocks up the street. Over Susan and Nan’s Place.”
“Isn’t that a little noisy?” Wesley asked. Susan and Nan’s was the local café, and opened at six AM seven days a week.
“Most days I sleep right through it.” Robbie flashed a grin. “Also, when it comes to the rent, the price is right.”
“Good deal. Night, you guys,” Don started for his Tercel, then turned back. “I intend to kiss my kids before I turn in. Maybe it’ll help me get to sleep. That last story—” He shook his head. “I