Thomas M. Disch

by The Prisoner

  “Thanks, but if it’s all the same, I’d rather be free to be free.”

  “You intend to return, then, to London?”

  “Not then–now.”

  “And there, what will you do?”

  “Contact the authorities.”

  “You see, immediately you leaveour jail, you fly totheirs ! I’m sorry, Number 6, but I really cannot allow that.”

  The beige sphere made a sudden rush.

  Squatting, he pulled the cage down about him. The sphere swerved and interposed itself between the cage and the woods, pressed itself against the bars.

  “We’ve been all through this, Number 2. The woods aren’t fifty yards away. You’ve lost.”

  The beige sphere began to pulse at a rapid tempo. Its south pole depressed and darkened to chocolate-brown.

  “You won’t reconsider, Number 6?”

  “Not even if you threaten to turn to Golden Syrup and candy me. Sorry, pal.”

  “Well then, adieu,” said the sphere, and shot high,high into the air.

  “Finally,” he muttered. He slipped the three false joints from the carefully sharpened poles and swung them on their hinges. Then, as the sphere reached the apogee of its ascent, he slipped out from the cage and begun running to the woods. He had not gone twenty yards when the sphere smashed into the cage with a loud metallic groan (the cage collapsing) and a plastic burp (the sphere punctured).

  He turned to see the sphere gradually metamorphose into an ellipsoid, as it writhed, impaled, on the three spikes. It flopped softly to its side, and shook the wreckage of the cage from its wrinkling hide. Half its surface now was lavender, with scarlet pox-marks where the pikes had entered.

  The hissing changed to a bubbling whistle, a flute clogged with spittle. Rather, a trio of flutes, which one by one abandoned their shrill, monotonous song. The damned things were self-sealing!

  He started running, for his life.

  The sphere bellowed at him: “FUM BLOOH EH SCHPUSH UFH! SHUH BEPPEP!” and lumbered liquidly after. Even half-deflated, it could slop along at a fair clip, but he reached the woods with yards to spare and stood once more encaged by the gigantic bars of the pines.

  The sphere somehow was managing to re-inflate itself. It addressed him earnestly: “WABE, NUBBER SHES! WABE A MINNUB!”

  He wabed, and in a minubb the sphere had reassumed its earlier, Euclidean proportions, though all but a little patch at the top was lavender now.

  “Thank you,” Number 2 said. “I wanted, before you went off, to extend my congratulations and—”

  “If that’s all, then I really must—”

  “Andto say that I’ve found that poem you asked me to dig up. So if you will wait just a moment …”

  “Why not send a copy to my address in London?”

  “Because it’s very apposite to the present occasion. If I may?”

  “Is it long?”

  “Just six lines. It’s called ‘Pluck Wins.’ Listen:

  ‘Pluck wins! It always wins! though days be slow

  And nights be dark ’twixt days that come and go.

  Still pluck will win; its average is sure,

  He gains the prize who will the most endure,

  Who faces issues; he who never shirks,

  Who waits and watches, and who always works.’ ”

  At the northern horizon he saw the gnat that would become the hawk that would become the helicopter.

  “That was nice, Number 2, but now I really must say goodbye.”

  “I understand. Goodbye, then, and I do hope you’ll come back soon. I’ll miss you, Number 6. You’re my very favorite prisoner, you know. Give my regards to—”

  Was he gone now? A regular rabbit, that fellow, when he had the chance.

  “To my friend, Mr. Thorpe,” Number 2 continued quietly, “if by any chance you should meet him in London.”

  Chapter Ten

  At the Office

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the receptionist said, “but Mr Thorpeis engaged. If you care to wait until—”

  “I’ve waited, already, three days.”

  “I understand there’s acrisis somewhere.” Having spoken this most magical of words, she thumped a fat fashion magazine on the glass desk, nodded at the neat rows of people behind the glass wall. “You can see that you’re not the only one who’s had to wait. The crisis—”

  “There’s always a crisissomewhere . Thorpe knows me. He knows I wouldn’t bother him unless I had a crisis, too. For that matter,you know me.”

  Though she wavered at “crisis,” she could resist any personal appeal. “If you say so, sir. I am only following Mr Thorpe’s instructions, and his instructions were that he is not to be interrupted on any account.”

  “I won’t be put off any longer by these rituals. Imust speak to him!”

  The receptionist caressed one of the photographs, as though his anger threatened not herself but the glossy image on the paper. Once or twice a year there would be one like this, one who simply would not leave her alone. As though there were anythingshe could do for them! It was the whole purpose of her being placed here, at this glass desk, overlooking the glass-walled waiting room, that she should signify to those who waited that nothingcould be done for them, that they might stew there for days, weeks, months, and no attention would be paid to them, no one would listen, that they were, in an official sense, invisible.

  “He knows that, sir. A memo was taken to him on Wednesday afternoon, when you arrived, and again yesterday, and again this morning.”

  “If he knew I’m here, he’d see me.”

  Well, if he just refused to understand, then she would too! She started intently at the vibrant new nomad fashion mix, flurries of red fox about a wool tweed vest, a lace-stippled linen blouse, brown kidskin knickers, cataracts of heavy gold chain, and boots by Herbert Levine.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

  “Just as you like, sir.” She smiled with the go-native Nomad Look from Ultima II, a melange of terrific tawny shades: pinks, ambers, opals, amethysts. “Tomorrow is Saturday, however, and Mr Thorpegolfs on Saturdays.”

  “Then I’ll see him at his club.”

  She nodded, clinking her necklaces, bobbing her curls, pressing the button that opened the glass wall. As he left (without a single pleasant word) she thought how, if it weren’t for people like him, her job would have been almost perfectly ideal.

  She buzzed the wall shut, and the pages ofBazaar opened, like creamy petals, to swallow the frail butterfly of her mind.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the clerk, as he entered the camera shop, “but your projector isn’t ready yet.”

  “It was promised for yesterday.”

  “We hadn’t realized the problems involved, sir. If the film were an ordinary size …”

  “If I’d thought it would cost me all this trouble, I would have done the work myself.”

  “And ifwe’d realized that, sir, we would have been pleased to let you.”

  “When will I have it?”

  “Tomorrow, sir. Our man is working on it now.”

  “Tomorrow is Saturday. You’ll be closed.”

  “I’ll be coming in just on your account, sir.”

  “Will you look at that, Jeremy?” the clerk said to the man behind the curtain as soon as they were alone. “Have you ever seen suchincivility ?”

  “But Mr Plath, I told you I had his projector ready.”

  “You never seem to remember what I try to teach you aboutpsychology . Do you think he’d appreciate the effort you’ve gone to if it were ready for him when it was promised? Of course not. The more times he has to phone up or come back, the more he’ll realize how hard he’s made us work, and the more we can charge him for it.”

  “And you’ll be coming in on a Saturday just for psychology, Mr Plath?”

  “No, that was psychology too. The shop will open on Monday at the usual hour.”

  “And won’t the gentleman be angry?”

  �
��Naturally, Jeremy. That’s thepoint . When they’re furious, they’ll pay any price just for the pleasure of throwing the bills on the counter and slamming the door. Why, once I got a customer to hit me starting off with no more than a simple black-and-white enlargement. He’d been coming here daily for three weeks. His attorney settled with mine for five hundred pounds—no, guineas it was. The best piece of work I’ve ever done. A triumph, Jeremy, an absolute triumph of psychology!”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the man behind the bar with a tactful frown. “You’re quite correct in saying that this is Mr Thorpe’s club, but—”

  “Andmine.”

  “Yes, sir, and yours, as you say. We’ve missed you recently.But , as I said, sir, this is Saturday. Mr Thorpe detests the course on Saturdays. It’s so crowded, you know. Will you have another gin-and-tonic, sir?”

  “I’m drinking Scotch.”

  “Of course, sir. You always drink Scotch, don’t you? I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.” As though to emphasize his malfunction, he dropped the glass he’d been drying for ten minutes into the sink: a starbust of crystal across the stainless steel.

  The Muzak carpeted the air withHumoresque . He remembered having joined the club, but he could not remember his reasons.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the old woman said with a pleased look, “but the Colonel is spending the weekend in the country.”

  “With whom, please? It’s essential that I reach him at once.”

  “No doubt it is, sir. Everything that concerns the Colonel is essential. But—” She jingled the ring of keys chained to her waist. “—I’m not at liberty …”

  “Then who would be at liberty?”

  The housekeeper shook her head, as though he’d asked a question that was at once meaningless and faintly immoral, an invitation to indulge in a physiologically impossible act. “Youought to know that better thanme , sir.”

  With that careful flaw of grammar she had as much as slammed the door in his face. Servants, it implied, do not converse with gentlemen, ever. Then, realizing what she had implied, she did, in fact, slam the door in his face.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the operator, “but that number has been disconnected.”

  “In that case, perhaps you would do me a favor?” The receiver fizzed noncommittally. “Perhaps you would tell mewhose number it was. Or the address, rather.”

  “What number did you say, sir?”

  “COVentry-6121. Or COVent Garden. I’m not sure about the exchange.”

  “We’re not allowed to give out that information over the phone, sir. I’m very sorry.”

  “Then why in hell did you ask the number?”

  “I wastrying to be helpful, sir,” she answered aggrievedly.

  He slammed the receiver into the cradle. His sixpence returned. He wanted to swear at someone, to their face, but there was only the telephone to swear at, an old black plastic telephone with halitosis, and you could see by its scars how often already it had been abused for the faults of its betters. Even so, he swore at it.

  It couldn’t be a plot. Not all of it. Not everywhere. Not every one of them, the clerks in stores, the secretaries in offices, bartenders, servants, telephone operators.

  It grew increasingly difficult to remember that the world hadalways been like this.

  The glass wall slid open. He stepped through. Already, as the receptionist lifted up her smile to him, he heard the inevitable though still unspoken words, in the way an astronomer anticipates, before the sky darkens, the exact position of Saturn in the constellation of Scorpio.

  “God morning, sir. Mr. Thorpe would like to see you right away.”

  “He … would?” (As though the planet had vanished!)

  “Yes, sir. No, not that way, sir. He’s upstairs, with Colonel Schjeldahl. Suite P, on 7. Do you know the way?”

  “I can find it.”

  “You won’t find it if you usethose elevators, sir. They’re for the public. Let me buzz a guard. He’ll take you.” She buzzed a guard. Before he’d been led away she remembered to ask: “Did you have a nice weekend, sir?” (That’s the question you ask on Monday.)

  He said, “Yes.”

  And even, “Thank you.”

  And, “Did you?”

  “I had asuper weekend, just super!”

  How nice of him to have asked, she thought.He’s actually a lot of fun when you get to know him .

  “My dear fellow,” said the Colonel, “before you go off the deep end, let us explain! In our position you would have done exactly the same thing. Wouldn’t he, Dobbin?”

  “Yes, Colonel,” Thorpe replied, “he would.”

  “We want to help you, but we have a problem. Tell him our problem, Dobbin.”

  Thorpe tapped the mural world-map with an electric pointer, citing with each tap a city and an aspect of the problem. “You resign. You disappear. You return to us with a yarn that Hans Christian Andersen would reject for a fairytale.”

  The Colonel, who had some notion of who Hans Christian Andersen was, chuckled and made a note on his memo-pad so that when he described this scene later at his club he would remember his assistant’s joke. A regular wasp of a fellow, this Thorpe!

  “We must be sure,” Thorpe continued, speaking quite slowly for the Colonel’s benefit. “People do defect. An unhappy thought, but a fact of life. They defect, from one side to the other …”

  “I also have a problem,” he said. “I’m not sure which side runs this Village.”

  “And we’re not sure that this Village even exists. It’s highly improbable.”

  “I’ve shown you the pictures.”

  “Postcards and pencil sketches of a holiday resort.”

  “I have other documentation.”

  “We would like to see it,” said the Colonel agreeably, having caught the drift again. “Wouldn’t we, Dobbin?”

  “Absolutely, Colonel! Anything he can produce even slightly more concrete. Names, for instance.”

  “As I explained, the residents are given numbers. One seldom knows, even, which are the prisoners and which are the guards. However, if I could look over photos of suspected defectors–covering, say, the last ten or even twenty years–I would probably recognize several faces.”

  “That, old man,” Thorpe said, touching him with the pointer, “is exactly what we’re afraid of.”

  “Then you won’t help me?”

  “The Colonel and I will carry the matter higher up. In the meantime, if you’d bring in this other documentation …? Tomorrow, shall we say, at eleven?”

  “After lunch would be better, Dobbin,” the Colonel said. “I’m always tied up in the morning. Let’s make it two o’clock. If we should need to get in touch with you before that, perhaps you’d tell my secretary where you can be reached.”

  “At the moment I’m between hotels. I’ll be here tomorrow at two. I want to see Taggert then. The receptionist tells me he doesn’t exist.”

  “Dobbin and I will be discussing this with him today.”

  “I would have preferred to be present when you talk to him. I have somewhat more confidence in his listening to me.”

  “A ladder,” Thorpe said, “must be mounted rung by rung. Before youretired ”–as he pronounced it, the word might have meant anything else exceptretired –“you could omit the lower rungs. Inthose days, it was you who stood between Taggert and me.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Thorpe?”

  “Mildly, old man. Mildly.”

  The bedsheet was pinned across the drapes of the hotel room to form a screen. A small cigar smoked, forgotten, in the empty canister marked 14-LESB. The film was threaded into the modified Bell & Howell projector, for which he’d been charged thirty guineas above the list price. He had only to touch the switch and the past that had been stolen from him would unwind itself, at the rate of thirty-two frames per second, into his possession, restoring the shadow of a memory if not the memory itself.

  Why this reluctance,
then? Why did his hand hesitate? Wasn’t the crucial thing, now, to recover what had been stolen? Until he did, his escape would be the hollowest kind of victory, for they would still hold his past hostage, in the prison files, like the leg a wolf leaves behind in the steel jaws of a trap.

  He touched the machine that held his memory–and was shown:

  A glass wall. Behind it, the people, waiting. Some thumbed through the familiar magazines with the same skilful inattention with which a pianist in a cocktail bar might whip throughMood Indigo for the tenth time in a single evening. Others, less practiced in patience, stared wistfully at the clockface above them, like spurned lovers who are still allowed to bepresent so long as they never declare their love.

  Thesame people. He knew them. In this film they were a little younger, their clothes a bit fresher, their eyes not quite so dull–but the same. He had sat in that room with them hours at a time. He could not be mistaken.

  Then, a medium close-up of Thorpe, dressed for golf. Behind him, indistinctly, the Colonel was poking about in the sandtrap next to the fourth hole.

  “We must be sure,” Thorpe said. “People do defect. An unhappy thought, but a fact of life. They defect, from one side to the other …”

  The camera panned to his own face, zoomed in artfully to reveal the resentment that underlay the frustration, the stubbornness behind the resentment, and behind the stubbornness, the suspicion he had not permitted himself, consciously, either then or now.

  “I have a problem too,” he’d said. “I’m not certain which side runs the Village.”

  While the camera held its close-up on his face, the Colonel spoke: “A mutual problem.”

  “Which I’m going to solve.”

  “Quite,” the Colonel said.

  “If not here, then elsewhere.”

  There was no point in watching more of it. He switched itOFF , and in the darkness and the silence he caught the first whiff of the gas. The flickering.

  He tried to stand amidst the sliding forms, on the warping carpet, above the roar.

  The locked door was opening.

  He knew that he had been captured long before he had escaped.