1984

           Hewentbacktohiscubicle,satdown,threwthefragmentofpapercasuallyamongtheotherpapersonthedesk,putonhisspectaclesandhitchedthespeakwritetowardshim. ‘Fiveminutes,’hetoldhimself,‘fiveminutesattheveryleast!’ Hisheartbumpedinhisbreastwithfrighteningloudness. Fortunatelythepieceofworkhewasengagedonwasmereroutine,therectificationofalonglistoffigures,notneedingcloseattention. 

           Whateverwaswrittenonthepaper,itmusthavesomekindofpoliticalmeaning. Sofarashecouldseethereweretwopossibilities. One,muchthemorelikely,wasthatthegirlwasanagentoftheThoughtPolice,justashehadfeared. HedidnotknowwhytheThoughtPoliceshouldchoosetodelivertheirmessagesinsuchafashion,butperhapstheyhadtheirreasons. Thethingthatwaswrittenonthepapermightbeathreat,asummons,anordertocommitsuicide,atrapofsomedescription. Buttherewasanother,wilderpossibilitythatkeptraisingitshead,thoughhetriedvainlytosuppressit. Thiswas,thatthemessagedidnotcomefromtheThoughtPoliceatall,butfromsomekindofundergroundorganization. PerhapstheBrotherhoodexistedafterall! Perhapsthegirlwaspartofit! Nodoubttheideawasabsurd,butithadsprungintohismindintheveryinstantoffeelingthescrapofpaperinhishand. Itwasnottillacoupleofminuteslaterthattheother,moreprobableexplanationhadoccurredtohim. Andevennow,thoughhisintellecttoldhimthatthemessageprobablymeantdeath—still,thatwasnotwhathebelieved,andtheunreasonablehopepersisted, andhisheartbanged,anditwaswithdifficultythathekepthisvoicefromtremblingashemurmuredhisfiguresintothespeakwrite.