May 18. A message dated tomorrow became one dated today.
At half past nine I took out sub-number four.
The telegraph operator's register of messages sent and received. Of thirty-seven, a hundred and fifty-four pages.
Each line has a time received, a time sent and a substance. There are nine hundred and eighteen messages.
I copied it by hand over nine days. As with the figures, I wrote each twice and went along matching them.
At twenty to ten I ran off the query record.
Over nine days the set's row has been opened a hundred and six times. The eight Latin characters, twenty-two.
Two or three a day. In April it was three in five days.
From ten to eleven I matched them.
The count is the same. Nine hundred and eighteen, and the copy nine hundred and eighteen.
The times received all agree.
Nineteen times sent differ.
From eleven to twelve I looked at those nineteen in the original.
All nineteen have a time sent one day later than the time received.
They stand as having been sent the day after they were received.
The telegraph operator wrote it on page a hundred and forty-two.
Nineteen messages sent under a date later than receipt, it says. Disposed of as line error, it says.
Under that there are five characters.
Did not respond.
From half past twelve to half past one I looked at the copy.
Eighteen of them have a time sent equal to the time received.
What was a day later has become that day.
What diverged in the original agrees in the copy.
At twenty to two I looked at the substance of the eighteen.
All short. One figure, or one weather, or one ship's name.
They are not things that could be known on the day received. They give how far the water came the next day, which way the wind blew the next day.
In the original that stood dated tomorrow. Tomorrow's matter came under tomorrow's date, so only the date was out.
In the copy it is dated that day. The date agrees.
The date agreeing, it becomes tomorrow's matter written on that day.
Setting right what was out makes it stranger.
The telegraph operator disposed of it as line error. If it is line error the date is wrong, and then the substance ought to be that day's.
The substance is not that day's.
He will have seen that too. He saw it and wrote line error.
From half past one to two I wrote down how this differs from what came before.
The librarian's gained a row in the copy. The surveyor's grew in value in the copy. The lighthouse keeper's had the copy fill an empty box.
In all three the copy moved away from the original.
Today it moved closer.
In eight months in this room the copy has never gone toward the original. It always widened.
There is no count for telling which is stranger, widening or narrowing. Both are the copy moving.
At two I looked at the nineteenth.
That one does not agree.
Four digits stand in the time sent.
The eighteenth of May, two thousand.
From ten past two to three I looked at that line.
I looked at the time received.
The sixteenth of December, thirty-seven.
That is the fifth time this room has seen that date.
The sending is sixty-two years after the receiving.
At three I looked at that line in the original again.
In the original it is the seventeenth of December, thirty-seven.
The day after it was received. The same as the other eighteen.
In the original it is a day later and in the copy it is sixty-two years later.
The eighteen were pulled forward and the one was pushed back.
At ten past three I looked at the time.
The time sent carries an hour too.
Ten past five in the afternoon.
It is ten past three now.
From twenty past three to four I looked at what ought to be written down.
Nothing has come to this room. No message has come; a line in a register stands as it stands.
The register is of thirty-seven and that line was written sixty-three years ago.
A line written sixty-three years ago carries today's date.
The line was written by my hand and within nine days. I have no memory of writing it. I have no memory of the twenty-six fourteenth tides either.
At ten past four I opened the right-hand material.
Three hundred and fifty-six pages. The date of the added page is 16 June 98.
My log is on its three hundred and fifty-sixth page today.
At twenty to five I opened the box.
Seven. Six impressions. The eighty-fourth day.
At five I looked at the sixth box.
Nine hundred and thirty-five.
At five past five I looked up what I wrote on the first of January.
A year written in two digits, carrying over, made yesterday and tomorrow one value. The thirty-first of December ninety-nine and the first of January two thousand went into one box on the screen.
That was because the form had two digits. Places being short, two days went into one box.
Today's is written in four digits.
The places are not short.
It came to ten past five.
Nothing happened.
No sound, and the screen as it was. No telephone call.
On the desk is the paper that has been there nine days and the paper that has been there since this morning.
At twenty past five I looked at that line's substance box.
It is empty.
It is empty in the original too.
Of the nineteen it is the only one whose substance is empty.
The other eighteen all say what came.
At twenty to six I looked at what could be written in that box.
There is nothing to write. Nothing came.
There is no box for writing that nothing came either.
The telegraph operator wrote did not respond. There is a place in his register for those five characters.
I copied it out, so it is in my copy.
That place is empty now.