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in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. But how far
away that future may be, there is no knowing. It might be
a thousand years. At present nothing is possible except to
extend the area of sanity little by little. We cannot act col-
lectively. We can only spread our knowledge outwards from
individual to individual, generation after generation. In the
face of the Thought Police there is no other way.’
He halted and looked for the third time at his wrist-
watch.
‘It is almost time for you to leave, comrade,’ he said to Ju-
lia. ‘Wait. The decanter is still half full.’
He filled the glasses and raised his own glass by the
stem.
‘What shall it be this time?’ he said, still with the same
faint suggestion of irony. ‘To the confusion of the Thought
Police? To the death of Big Brother? To humanity? To the
future?’
‘To the past,’ said Winston.
‘The past is more important,’ agreed O’Brien gravely.
They emptied their glasses, and a moment later Julia
stood up to go. O’Brien took a small box from the top of a
cabinet and handed her a flat white tablet which he told her
to place on her tongue. It was important, he said, not to go
out smelling of wine: the lift attendants were very obser-
vant. As soon as the door had shut behind her he appeared
to forget her existence. He took another pace or two up and
down, then stopped.
‘There are details to be settled,’ he said. ‘I assume that
you have a hiding-place of some kind?’