He said he was.
“Are these other people in their right minds?”
He said they were.
“And this isn’t an asylum? I mean, it isn’t a place where they cure crazy people?”
He said it wasn’t.
“Well, then,” I said, “either I am a lunatic, or something just as awful has happened. Now tell me, honest and true, where am I?”
“In King Arthur’s Court.”
I waited a minute, to let that idea shudder its way home, and then said:
“And according to your notions, what year is it now?”
“528—nineteenth of June.”