1984

           Theywerestandinginfrontofatelescreen. Somewhatabsent-mindedlyO’Brienfelttwoofhispocketsandthenproducedasmallleather-coverednotebookandagoldink-pencil. Immediatelybeneaththetelescreen,insuchapositionthatanyonewhowaswatchingattheotherendoftheinstrumentcouldreadwhathewaswriting,hescribbledanaddress,toreoutthepageandhandedittoWinston. 

           ‘Iamusuallyathomeintheevenings,’hesaid. ‘Ifnot,myservantwillgiveyouthedictionary.’ 

           Hewasgone,leavingWinstonholdingthescrapofpaper,whichthistimetherewasnoneedtoconceal. Neverthelesshecarefullymemorizedwhatwaswrittenonit,andsomehourslaterdroppeditintothememoryholealongwithamassofotherpapers. 

           Theyhadbeentalkingtooneanotherforacoupleofminutesatthemost. Therewasonlyonemeaningthattheepisodecouldpossiblyhave. IthadbeencontrivedasawayoflettingWinstonknowO’Brien’saddress. Thiswasnecessary,becauseexceptbydirectenquiryitwasneverpossibletodiscoverwhereanyonelived. Therewerenodirectoriesofanykind. ‘Ifyoueverwanttoseeme,thisiswhereIcanbefound,’waswhatO’Brienhadbeensayingtohim. Perhapstherewouldevenbeamessageconcealedsomewhereinthedictionary. Butatanyrate,onethingwascertain. Theconspiracythathehaddreamedofdidexist,andhehadreachedtheouteredgesofit. 

           HeknewthatsoonerorlaterhewouldobeyO’Brien’ssummons. Perhapstomorrow,perhapsafteralongdelay—hewasnotcertain. Whatwashappeningwasonlytheworking-outofaprocessthathadstartedyearsago.