1984

           SincehedidnotinfactknowwhatkindofhelpheexpectedfromO’Brien,itwasnoteasytosaywhyhehadcomehere. Hewenton,consciousthatwhathewassayingmustsoundbothfeebleandpretentious: 

           ‘Webelievethatthereissomekindofconspiracy,somekindofsecretorganizationworkingagainsttheParty,andthatyouareinvolvedinit. Wewanttojoinitandworkforit. WeareenemiesoftheParty. WedisbelieveintheprinciplesofIngsoc. Wearethought-criminals. Wearealsoadulterers. Itellyouthisbecausewewanttoputourselvesatyourmercy. Ifyouwantustoincriminateourselvesinanyotherway,weareready.’ 

           Hestoppedandglancedoverhisshoulder,withthefeelingthatthedoorhadopened. Sureenough,thelittleyellow-facedservanthadcomeinwithoutknocking.Winstonsawthathewascarryingatraywithadecanterandglasses. 

           ‘Martinisoneofus,’saidO’Brienimpassively.‘Bringthedrinksoverhere,Martin. Putthemontheroundtable. Haveweenoughchairs? Thenwemayaswellsitdownandtalkincomfort. Bringachairforyourself,Martin. Thisisbusiness. Youcanstopbeingaservantforthenexttenminutes.’ 

           Thelittlemansatdown,quiteathisease,andyetstillwithaservant-likeair,theairofavaletenjoyingaprivilege. Winstonregardedhimoutofthecornerofhiseye. Itstruckhimthattheman’swholelifewasplayingapart,andthathefeltittobedangeroustodrophisassumedpersonalityevenforamoment. O’Brientookthedecanterbytheneckandfilleduptheglasseswithadark-redliquid. ItarousedinWinstondimmemoriesofsomethingseenlongagoonawallorahoarding—avastbottlecomposedofelectriclightswhichseemedtomoveupanddownandpouritscontentsintoaglass.