Her prattle seeped in and he became aware of it and what she was saying. New Year?
"What—what year—is this?" He spoke with great difficulty, from the long disuse of vocal cords. It was hardly more than a whisper, but she heard and was startled.
"Why, Mr. Symmes, it's been so long since you've talked." She paused, but realized that she had not answered his question.
"It's '73, of course. Last year was '72, so tonight's the start of '73."
'73? Had it been fifty years since he came here? Had it been just that long?
"What—" She leaned closer to him as he struggled for the word. "What—century?"
Her astonishment was gone. He was teasing her, like the woman on the next level. These old ones were great for that!
"Now, Mr. Symmes, everybody knows what century it is." She smiled at him glowingly, thinking she had caught him at a prank. It was nice, she thought, to have gotten through to him tonight, on the eve of the new year. That meant that she was living up to her motto the way she ought to be.
She'd have to tell the supervisor about it.
Oliver Symmes turned to face the ceiling, his mind full of dusty whispers. What century was it? She hadn't answered. It might have been a hundred and fifty years ago he came here, instead of just fifty. Or possibly two hundred and fifty, or ...