The beatings grew less frequent， and became mainly a threat， a horror to which he could be sent back at any moment when his answers were unsatisfactory. His questioners now were not ruffians in black uniforms but Party intellectuals， little rotund men with quick movements and flashing spectacles， who worked on him in relays over periods which lasted — he thought， he could not be sure — ten or twelve hours at a stretch. These other questioners saw to it that he was in constant slight pain， but it was not chiefly pain that they relied on. They slapped his face， wrung his ears. pulled his hair， made him stand on one leg， refused him leave to urinate， shone glaring lights in his face until his eyes ran with water； but the aim of this was simply to humiliate him and destroy his power of arguing and reasoning. Their real weapon was the merciless questioning that went on and on， hour after hour， tripping him up， laying traps for him， twisting everything that he said， convicting him at every step of lies and self-contradiction until he began weeping as much from shame as from nervous fatigue Sometimes he would weep half a dozen times in a single session. Most of the time they screamed abuse at him and threatened at every hesitation to deliver him over to the guards again； but sometimes they would suddenly change their tune， call him comrade， appeal to him in the name of Ingsoc and Big Brother， and ask him sorrowfully whether even now he had not enough loyalty to the Party left to make him wish to undo the evil he had done. When his nerves were in rags after hours of questioning， even this appeal could reduce him to snivelling tears. In the end the nagging voices broke him down more completely than the boots and fists of the guards. He became simply a mouth that uttered， a hand that signed， whatever was demanded of him. His sole concern was to find out what they wanted him to confess， and then confess it quickly， before the bullying started anew. He confessed to the assassination of eminent Party members， the distribution of seditious pamphlets， embezzlement of public funds， sale of military secrets， sabotage of every kind. He confessed that he had been a spy in the pay of the Eastasian government as far back as 1968. He confessed that he was a religious believer， an admirer of capitalism， and a sexual pervert. He confessed that he had murdered his wife， although he knew， and his questioners must have known， that his wife was still alive. He confessed that for years he had been in personal touch with Goldstein and had been a member of an underground organization which had included almost every human being he had ever known. It was easier to confess everything and implicate everybody. Besides， in a sense it was all true. It was true that he had been the enemy of the Party， and in the eyes of the Party there was no distinction between the thought and the deed.
There were also memories of another kind. They stood out in his mind disconnectedly， like pictures with blackness all round them.
He was in a cell which might have been either dark or light， because he could see nothing except a pair of eyes. Near at hand some kind of instrument was ticking slowly and regularly. The eyes grew larger and more luminous. Suddenly he floated out of his seat， dived into the eyes， and was swallowed up.
He was strapped into a chair surrounded by dials， under dazzling lights. A man in a white coat was reading the dials. There was a tramp of heavy boots outside. The door clanged open. The waxed-faced officer marched in， followed by two guards.
“Room 101，”said the officer.
The man in the white coat did not turn round. He did not look at Winston either； he was looking only at the dials. He was rolling down a mighty corridor， a kilometre wide， full of glorious， golden light， roaring with laughter and shouting out confessions at the top of his voice. He was confessing everything， even the things he had succeeded in holding back under the torture. He was relating the entire history of his life to an audience who knew it already. With him were the guards， the other questioners， the men in white coats， O’Brien， Julia， Mr Charrington， all rolling down the corridor together and shouting with laughter. Some dreadful thing which had lain embedded in the future had somehow been skipped over and had not happened. Everything was all right， there was no more pain， the last detail of his life was laid bare， understood， forgiven.
He was starting up from the plank bed in the half-certainty that he had heard O’Brien’s voice. All through his interrogation， although he had never seen him， he had had the feeling that O’Brien was at his elbow， just out of sight. It was O’Brien who was directing everything. It was he who set the guards on to Winston and who prevented them from killing him. It was he who decided when Winston should scream with pain， when he should have a respite， when he should be fed， when he should sleep， when the drugs should be pumped into his arm. It was he who asked the questions and suggested the answers. He was the tormentor， he was the protector， he was the inquisitor， he was the friend. And once — Winston could not remember whether it was in drugged sleep， or in normal sleep， or even in a moment of wakefulness — a voice murmured in his ear： “Don’t worry， Winston； you are in my keeping. For seven years I have watched over you. Now the turning-point has come. I shall save you， I shall make you perfect.”He was not sure whether it was O’Brien’s voice； but it was the same voice that had said to him，“We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness，”in that other dream， seven years ago.
