It was the alert, cold face of a man of about five-and-thirty. It occurred to Winston that for the first time in his life he was looking, with knowledge, at a member of the Thought Police...
Winston recognised the voice that he had heard a few moments ago on the telescreen. Mr Carrington, the man who had been of great service to him for many years had betrayed him. He was still wearing his old velvet jacket, but his hair, which had been almost white, had turned black. Also, he was not wearing his spectacles. The man entire had undergone a massive transformation. Like a caterpillar's amazing redevelopment into a butterfly. His body had straightened, the black eyebrows on his face were less bushy, the wrinkles were gone, whole lines of the face seemed to be altered; even the nose seemed shorter. The overwhelming confusion occupied Winston's mind and the total deception of a world against him had finally been realised.
"Where do you think you're taking me?" Winston cried.
"Oh, don't you worry. We'll take good care of you."
Winston immediately heard a number of malevolent laughs rising in a crescendo around him. He could not see them though. He imagined that there were at least five of them. They had wrapped a tight bandage around his head. He was sure that they had soaked it in some sort of fuel. He was hauled up into a van and driven away hastily. An hour had past and Winston was becoming agitated in the back of the vehicle. He had listened to them talking about how they were going to make Big Brother proud and Eurasia would perish. Winston thought to himself; what do they mean by Eurasia would perish? Was not Oceania at war with Eastasia?
The van had come to an abrupt stop. There was a lot of movement in the front seat. "Hey junior, get out of the van", one of them yelled.
"I can't see where I'm going," Winston debated innocently.
"Listen, get out before I damage that ugly face of yours and slice your varicose veins, one by one."
It was Mr Cunningham. A man once the best friend Winston boasted and the only camouflage he had over the hatred he contained for the party. Winston remembered a line in one of the articles he himself had written in the ministry:
Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime is death.
Finally, Winston was pulled out quite savagely by one of the men. They unmasked him so as not to be suspicious and began walking. Winston opened his eyes carefully as he had been in the dark for so long that the bright light would damage his eyes. It was the Airstrip. The rest of the men, whom Winston was seeing for the first time, accompanied by Mr Carrington were taking him to the airport. All the men seemed of a large build wearing black trench coats and shiny black shoes. He saw them as they walked in a line in front of him. None of them uttered a word. It seemed the planning and talking had been terminated long before.
It was a very organised operation. Each of the men walked towards the same terminal, stepped aside and waited for Winston to proceed. As Winton walked, according to signals of the officers, there was a gasp and a flurry at Winston's side. One of the five men had actually flung himself on his knees on the floor, with his hand clasped together. 'Comrade! Officer!' he cried. 'You don't have to take me! I will make a good serviceman in the Ministry. Please, I have a wife and two brilliant children.'
It seemed inevitable that this man would be killed. He had refused an ingsoc command, administered by the leaders of the party and authorised by Big Brother. Immediately, as the man knelt down in tears, each of the other four men (officers) removed their guns. It was like confession of the murder of the godfather in Mafia headquarters. The leader, as it became obvious to Winston, Mr Cunningham stopped them before he himself, in one almighty shudder pulled the trigger. Winston stood in astonishment. There were no real comrades in this world. Winston's complete inner spirit was crushed. His existence on Earth could be questioned without an answer.
Mr Cunningham held Winston as the men continued hurriedly through the terminal as though they had an appointed time. They passed the ticket collector without a complaint and it was becoming evermore clear to Winston that this conspiracy was heavily subjugated. Each man quickly entered the aeroplane. It seemed very populated and occupied by many economy-class travellers. Winston wondered anxiously where he was being taken and where this flight would take him in the next puzzle of his routine life. The five men including Winston moved down the aisle to the Business class area. It was empty. Not one person. This was strange, especially at this time of year.
The seats were fabricated in blue leather. Winston had never before sat in a leather seat. Big Brother had disallowed all imports of expensive fabrics as this would be a luxury. The smell was aromatic according to Winston. The soft touch had been like nothing he had ever felt before. For two hours the men all sat discussing in privacy. Each one with a hand over his mouth and careful so as Winston could not hear. He speculated obliviously what they were talking about. Maybe they were taking him to a camp in Australasia, Winston thought. He had heard of people being sent there in the eighteenth and nineteenth century as convicts. He needed to know. It was like struggling with some crushing physical task, something which one had the right to refuse and which one was nevertheless neurotically anxious to find out. His mind told him no, yet his mouth refused to close. 'Hey. Where is this plane flying to?'
Mr Cunningham stood out of his seat. 'I've known you for a long time Winston,' he stated. 'You and I both know that you hate the party. What will happen in two hours time will be the ultimate compensation for Big Brother and indeed the party.' He paused as though he himself would be affected by this saga. After a few seconds of intimate silence, Mr Cunningham continued. 'You see Winston, in one combination or another, these three super-states are permanently at war and have been so for the past twenty-five years. War, however is no longer the desperate, annihilating struggle that it was in the early decades of the twentieth century. It is now a warfare of limited aims between combatants who are unable to destroy one another. Winston,' he sighed, 'you must understand something. We are not the enemy. It is the others who are. As officers and comrades we only aim to set them straight.'
Immediately Mr Cunningham turned and made a signal with his hand to each of his fellow officers. All of them stood and walked up toward the front side of the aeroplane. The guard standing at the door of the cockpit stepped to his left allowing all the officers to enter. They shut the door behind them. But what transpired after that Winston would never know. He sat quietly in his seat unable to picture what could be happening at that very moment. It was a blockbuster movie. These sorts of things could only happen in films starring big actors and massive cinema budgets. Winston stared at the cockpit security officer. He wore a black, neatly ironed uniform; he did not wear a hat; there was the emblem of Oceania sewed onto the front pocket of his shirt. The man's eyes were closed. His unpleasant face was restless and continuous jerks of his leg began to make Winston curious.
Winston reasoned in his mind. This man surely knew what was going to happen. If he did know what was going to happen and he was so tense, what did it mean for the rest of the heavily populated aeroplane? Winston began to panic. He got out of his seat and ran towards the economy-class area. Most people were finishing off their appetising meals. Winston and the rest of the officers did not receive any form of food for the entire four hours. What did this mean?
'Hijackers, hijackers,' he yelled. 'They've hijacked the plane.' Immediate screams could be heard from the back of the plane and the faces of those closest to Winston shot with ghostly trepidation.
As the people screamed, a voice from the P.A system of the plane brassed out. 'This is Officer Cunningham. The representative of Oceania and Big Brother that will remove your people from the everlasting bondage they live under. The essential act of war is destruction, not necessarily of human lives, but of the products of human labour. War is a way of shattering to pieces, or pouring into the stratosphere, or sinking in the depth of the sea, materials which might otherwise make the masses too comfortable, and hence in the long run, too intelligent. Today, we will make your state proud and you will be seen as heroes in the eyes of Big Brother. I tell you now that after today the world will be a different place and Oceania will be a floating fortress in which cannot be touched. I beseech you to remember that you are the followers of Big Brother. I wish you will all declare with me, long live Big Brother!'