Thomas M. Disch

by The Prisoner

  “In that case how is it that the door is standing open?”

  The sweeper looked at the open door. He looked at his broom. He looked at the face of the clock. The big hand was on XI; the little hand was on IV. He tapped the clock with a thick, segmented sausage of finger. He said: “Look at the time.” “I’ve been looking at it for hours. Perhaps you can tell me when the next train leaves?” A very far-out possibility, but he would mention it.

  “Uh. You ask the ticket window man about that. I just sweep.” “There is no ticket window man to ask.”

  “That’s because we’re closed.” It followed logically, it did!

  “Since the waiting room is closed, I’ll wait outside on the platform.” Which he did.

  In a few moments the sweeper had followed him out the door, trailing his fine broom in dejection. “Hey. You. It’s closed.” “How can it be closed when there are still people waiting for a train?” The sweeper stood on his two feet and confronted this question, as though it had been a wall erected just in front of him in the middle of the platform.

  “Well. Anyhow.” (Climbing over the wall.) “You can’t sit there. I got to sweep.” He stood up. The sweeper swept. From the other end of the platform a third figure approached them. The sweeper stopped sweeping. He smiled. “You talk to him. Okay?” The approaching figure was of the secular (as opposed to the official, and uniformed) order, a prodigy of good grooming, good taste, and good cheer. As a model he would have commanded the very highest rates: well-built but notso well-built that you could not imagine those same clothes looking almost as nice on you; bright, even teeth (his grin broadened as he grew nearer) that would have done credit to any toothpaste; a prominent bone structure that one might photograph from any angle. He could have worn the most implausible clothing and yet it would have seemed, on him, fashionable rather than peculiar. He approached, grinning, within three feet, within two, and then, with as much grace as efficiency, he swung his fist into the stomach of the man who had begun to ask, once more, about the trains.

  Who was answered, as well, by the handle of the broom in the small of his back. Vertebrae crunched.

  He doubled up.

  Caught hold of the manicured hand chopping at his neck. Twisted, left, twisted, farther left. The buckled, square-toed shoes slipped.

  The bristly end of the broom swept on a long arc toward that point in space his head had occupied only a second before; which now was occupied by the more photogenic head of the model.

  The handle of the broom broke off at its base.

  He had stopped. Now, taking leverage on the suddenly limp wrist, he lifted the well-built body up: up higher. And dumped it into the suet pudding. A buckle-shoe caught in the harness. The harness gave.

  The sweeper looked unhappily at the body littering the platform. “You shouldn’t,” he said, in a tone more of disappointment than of disapproval.

  “Neither, for that matter, should you.”

  He hit the sweeper in the stomach.

  He hit the sweeper in the stomach a second time.

  He hit the sweeper in the stomach a third time.

  The sweeper lifted his arms in self-defense.

  Sometimes his fists sank into the pudding, sometimes they were deflected. The sweeper stepped over the pile of litter. Grabbed for a blue lapel with white piping.

  His fists battered at the blinking face. Seams strained, split. The sweeper got a better grip, beneath the swinging arms. He lifted, tightening his hold, oblivious, as a bear to bee stings, to the pelting hands, the kicking feet; hugging, more tightly still, the small of that back.

  Thinking:Break, godammit, break!

  Then:

  (The sweeper did not understand this, but he didn’t let it distract him.) They were on the platform, the other body tangled beneath their legs. They rolled, in each other’s grasp, across the well-swept boards. The sweeper’s head bumped the frame of the door. They rolled back. His head bumped the frame of the door, again. They rolled into the waiting room. His hands and arms and head concentrated on squeezing the small of that back.

  He began to choke.

  Eventually, his attention was distracted by this choking. The man he grasped was not hitting him any longer. Instead he was pulling at the broken straps of the harness. The straps were across his neck.

  He understood everything now: the man was choking him with the harness straps.

  He relaxed his hold to grab for …

  To get …

  But the straps were embedded too deeply in his flesh. Too tightly. He could not get …

  He choked.

  His head stopped thinking. His arms flopped.

  He stood above the sweeper, listened to the wheeze from his welted throat. His own breath came irregularly. He looked at himself in the mirror of the gum machine. The left lapel had been torn from his coat. He removed his bill-fold from the breast pocket, dropped the coat in a wire basket, Property of the Village.

  The movement of the sweeper’s arms indicated his return to consciousness. He put his shoulder against the back of the gum machine and shoved. The machine crashed down on the sweeper, whose arms once more relaxed.

  The body outside was still quiet.

  He jumped from the platform down to the track and began walking east along the ties. He stopped at intervals to remove a cinder from his shoe, but on the whole he made good time.

  He passed no houses. The station had been built at the easternmost limit of the Village. The track stretched on across a perfectly even and featureless plain, and so it was some time before he was out of sight of the station. A mile away Nature grew bolder and asserted herself with, here and there, a shrub of dogwood or a spindle tree. Saxifrage, iridescent as puddles of oil, squinted out from the cinder bed. Dandelions bred promiscuously amid the select gatherings of their betters–knapweed, butterbur and sneezewort yarrow.

  There were no birds. There was nothing in all this landscape, except himself, that moved or made noises.

  Two miles from the Village the tracks stopped, abruptly. The meadow continued, without the aid of perpective lines, to the horizon.

  A white sphere stood at the horizon, or just before it. Its size could not be estimated with any exactness. Twelve feet? Fifteen feet? More?

  The sphere approached, rolling smoothly and easily across the weeds, westward, away from its shadow.

  He broke into a run.

  The sphere swerved right, its silhouette warping momentarily with the torsion: it was soft.

  It was very big.

  He crouched, shielding his head in his arms. The sphere slammed into him, knocking him off his knees. He slid on his side several feet through the weeds. The sphere bounced high into the air, settled gelatinously, bounced, settled, quivered.

  He stood up, nursing his right shoulder, which had taken the brunt of the collision. The sphere edged toward him, nudged; pushed. He pushed back at the yielding white skin, but the great bulk of it moved on, resistless as a bull-dozer. He slithered, braced against the advancing sphere, across a mulch of crushed weeds and meadowgrass, until, his heel catching in soft earth, he could not slide. The straining muscles accordioned, he collapsed. The sphere moved back.

  He stood, wincing at the pain. An ankle sprained. The sphere rolled forward, nudged. He stepped back. The sphere stopped. He walked slowly backward, facing the sphere.

  He began angling to his left, still moving backward. The sphere, like an anxious collie, corrected his false trajectory.

  He angled to the right, which the sphere permitted until he had returned to the tracks. Thereafter no deviation from the true path was allowed. The sphere insisted that he return to the station. It insisted that he walk along, between the rails, at a moderate pace, back to the Village. It did allow him to stop at intervals to remove a cinder from his shoe, but it would not tolerate indolence on any larger scale.

  Chapter Six

  Something Blue

  A shrill voice, but when it broke, which occurred at almost
every point of emphasis, it became, quite evidently, a man’s. When it was most strident it seemed to possess overtones beyond the range of human audibility, pitched, perhaps, for dogs or bats, It spoke: “You!

  “Number 6!

  “Pay attention please.” The clearing of … a throat? a microphone? “I am addressingyou . Will you stop fussing over that pot and come into the living room?” He placed the artichoke on the wire rack above the boiling water, placed the lid on the pot, set the timer at thirty-five minutes. Sliced the roll, set its halves beneath the broiler to toast. Folded his arms.

  “I’m waiting. This obstinacy can only make matters more difficult for you, you know. For my own part, there are many other things I can do besides watching this cooking lesson. Are you listening to me, Number 6?

  “Number 6?”

  “My name is not Number 6. So, if it is me that you address, you would do well to use my name. If you don’t know it, which I doubt, you might introduce yourself. Then, perhaps, I’ll do as much for you.” “Oh, fuss and bother.I am Number 2. For administrative purposes, numbers are much more convenient than names, and more reasonable as well. In this Village there might be any number of people with the same first name as you, or, in your case, even the same surname. But there can only beone Number 6, Number 6.” “And only one Number 2?”

  “Precisely. Numbers have the further advantage that they are meaningful. When I say that I am Number 2, that you are Number 6, that tells us something about our relationship.Will you stop buttering that roll and come into the living room?” “I’d spoil my supper if I left off now. And in any case, I’d prefer to speak to Number 1. You may tell him that.” “For you even to suggest that shows how little you understand your position–or mine. I have full authority to handle your case, rest assured. What are you making there?” He took the roll, brown crust bubbling with butter, turned the oven to a low heat, placed it inside to dry. Poured the egg yolks into the top of the double broiler: they swirled into the melted butter.

  “Eggs Beaugency. This is the sauce.”

  “Well, leave it.”

  “Leave a Béarnaise sauce? You must be insane.”

  “You don’t seem to realize your position here, Number 6. If you did, you wouldn’t jeopardize those advantages you possess—such as my readiness to indulge you in this fantasy that you are free to oppose me.” “It’s an uncomfortable position. And I intend to change it.” “You are a prisoner, Number 6. It is as simple as that.” “I doubt that even in this Village anything is as simple as that. I am not Number 6. I am not a prisoner. I am a free man.” “Ah, philosophy! I cherish philosophy, but of course inyour situation it becomes downright necessary. There was a philosopher of ancient Rome, Horace (no doubt you’ve heard of him), who wrote: ‘Who, then is free? The wise man who can govern himself.’ Now that’s philosophy all over!” “More to the point, he said:Hic murus aeneus esto, nil conscire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa .” “Don’t your English public schools do wonderful things? There was never time, the way things went for me, to learn a classical language. I’ve always been kept going up and down, to and fro,doing things.” “You’re American?”

  “My accent? It’s mid-Atlantic, actually. And in other ways, Number 6, you’ll discover that I’m notquite what I seem.” A chuckle.

  Then: “It must be a burden for you, Number 6, to stand there stirring that Béarnaise sauce, when there must be so many questions that you want to ask.” “Not so difficult when my questions produce no answers.” “Always these suspicions, Number 6! Always this hostility, these frowns, this lack of mutuality!

  “If all who hate would love us,

  And all our loves were true,

  The stars that swing above us,

  Would brighten in the blue;

  If cruel words were kisses,

  And every scowl a smile,

  A better world than this is

  Would hardly be worth while.’ ”

  “Not Horace again, surely?”

  “No, an American philosopher–James Newton Matthews. But you meant that as a joke, didn’t you? You’re feeling a little better. I’m glad to see it. A sense of humor is an absolute necessity in situations like these.” “In prisons?”

  “Oh, in general. Once you become accustomed to our life here, you’ll find it isn’tthat much different from the world outside. What you might call a microcosm, in fact. We have our local, democratically-elected government.” “It’s powers must be rather limited.”

  “Yes, somewhat. Were it any otherwise, how could I insist on our typicality? Further, our residents enjoy considerable affluence. Your kitchen, for instance–you find it well equipped?” “It lacks a Mouli and a garlic press, and I don’t have much use for tinned spices, unless they’re all that’s to be had. And for what I’m doing now I should have beef marrow, but that can’t be helped.” “I’ll make a note of that and speak to Number 84. Stocking your kitchen was her responsibility, and she’ll have cause to regret her carelessness. You see, Number 6, no one is idle here. There is always work to do, and there is always someone to do it.You will not be required to take a job, but should you find your leisure becoming a problem—” “The very least of them.”

  “A man of your vigor–and without any compulsion towork ?” “I am retired, you know.”

  “So I’ve been given to understand. And so young too! Thirty-eight?” “Forty.”

  “You were born?”

  “Yes. On 19 March 1928. Don’t you have that in your dossier?” “You can’t expect me to keep track of all of that. You should see your dossier, Number 6–it’s very nearly the largest in our files.” “When the eggs are done, I’ll take you up on that.”

  “That sauce isn’t readyyet ? It’s rather impersonal to be discussing these matters at such a distance. I distrust a man who won’t look me in the eyes.” “Always these suspicions, Number 2! If all who love would hate us, and all our hates were true—” “You have a point. But as I was saying, about the organization of the Village (forgive me dwelling on a theme so dear to my heart): we also possess excellent recreational facilities. There are clubs that cater to every possible interest: photography, the theater, botany, folk singing. There are discussion groups on comparative religion, on political philosophy (I attend some of those myself), on almost anything that an educated man might want to talk about. We have some lively bridge tournaments, and if you play chess, we can boast three acknowledged masters of the game.” “Have you played against them?”

  “Yes, and I’ve even known to win. Then, what else? Sports? Dear me, all the sportsmen here! We have no less than four elevens. There are soccer teams for both men and women. Tennis is very popular, and squash. Our older citizens amuse themselves at croquet, and the spryer among them badminton. What are your preferences, Number 6?” “I’ve always preferred individual sport. But once again, that should be in my dossier.” “Yes, it said that you do quite a bit of boating. Sad to say, no one shows much interest in that here.” “And marksmanship?”

  “Oh, Number 6!”

  “Boxing, then? I sometimes like to box.”

  “For shame, Number 6–thatyou should be the one to bring it up! Poor Number 83 is in hospital with concussions. You really didn’t have to go that far.” “And the other one?”

  “Number 189 is back at his job, sweeping, sweeping. He’s quite resilient, that one. But even so, you must recognize how futile these violent outbursts are. Do you think that we’d be so naive as to base our security on a few pairs of fists? Our residents are always under surveillance, and those who are as important to us as you receive individual attention. Whenever you leave your house I’m kept informed of your whereabouts. Should you decide to take a walk into the country–and at this time of year, who can resist to?–you will be brought back to the Village, as you were today, whenever you overstep the boundaries.” “By your big white balls?”

  “By a Guardian, yes. Though not all are white. Some are pink. Some are baby blue. A few are mint-green, an
d there is one–I pray to God that you should never encounterit –in fawn.” “And the boundaries, how are they marked?”

  “We don’t like to deface the natural beauty of the surrounding countryside with unsightly signs and ugly wire fences. If you’re curious, you’ll discover them soon enough. After all, wasn’t it Wordsworth who said—” ‘Stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage.’ No, it was Richard Lovelace. In a poem he wrote to his mistress from prison.” “It wasn’t Wordsworth? I’m sure he said something, then, to the same effect. Perhaps I’m thinking of: ‘This royal throne of kings, this sceptre’d isle,

  This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

  This other Eden, demi-prisonhouse …’ ”

  “Whoever wrote them, they’re beautiful lines.”

  “Stirring, stirring! Well, God bless Richard Lovelace! And how is the sauce Béarnaise coming?” “You haven’t been watching: it’s done, and soon the artichoke will be.” “Can’t one trust an artichoke to cook itself? Come into the living room a moment and talk seriously, do.” “Very well, but I must have answers then.”

  “You need only ask the proper questions, Number 6.”

  He went into the living room.

  The damask curtains of the false window framed the smiling image of Number 2. He sat behind a circular blue desk; behind him, out of focus, hung heavy maroon drapes identical to the real ones framing the screen. Unless his face was naturally blue-gray, the transmitting apparatus could not reproduce flesh tones with any accuracy, though in other respects the image was astonishingly clear.

  The camera zoomed in slowly on the face until it occupied the greater part of the window frame; until, from the knobby blue chin to the faint citras-yellow curve (a strand of hair?) bounding the bald blue head, it measured fully four feet. It would have seemed, in other colors than these, a very friendly face. The general spareness of its features–the thin lips, the Draconian nose, the deep-set eyes (were they actually purple?)–could be accounted to age rather than to any sort of meanness. His smile seemed unforced and sincere, and his eyes, despite their dubious color, shared in this good humor.