"Perish it," I said.
"But this talk about--about _dial_ phones. About _armies_. Why, you
sound like one of those historical tri-vids about the twentieth
century!"
I smiled, without too much humor, shook my head at the phone, and
said, "Look, fellow, come off it, will you? I haven't got time to play
games." I hoped he wasn't some general or equivalent rank in a pixie
mood.
"Wait!" he said. "Wait--please--don't think off! Tell me, what year is
it? Where you are, I mean."
"What year? It's 1955, of course."
"Why," he said, "this is remarkable!"
"It is?"
"Do you know what I think has happened? A quantum inversion."
"Beg pardon?" I said.
"Karpo Sixteen predicted the possibility just the other day! Listen, my
friend, let me ask you just a few questions--"
Then the mechanical voice of the operator cut in. It wasn't a real
operator, of course, just a recorded voice, part of the new automatic
system. These voices gave all the standard phrases and usually at the
wrong time, the way the system was working. The worst of it was you
couldn't argue with them or curse them--at least you always felt a
little foolish afterward if you did.