Another morning in his imitation home. The phone beeps. He picks it up quickly, gets it over with. The familiar bright Operator’s voice.
“What do you want?”
“Number Six?”
I said, ‘What do you want?’”
“You are Number Six?”
“That’s the number on the phone.”
“Very good, then. Call from Number Two.”
The call comes through on the television, not the phone.
“Good morning, good morning.”
He whirls and sees Number Two’s smiling face on the telly. The new new new new new Number Two.
“Any complaints?”
“I’ve a very long list. Starting with rude intrusions before breakfast. Unless you plan to make me breakfast, I’d like to mind my own business.”
“So would we. Fancy a chat?”
“The mountain can come to Mohammed.”
The door opens. Number Two enters. How’d he get here so fast?
“Good to see you, Mohammed.”
“Do come in, since you already have. Everest, I presume?”
“I’ve never liked heights. How’s Number One?”
“At the summit.”
“And you’ve come to the valley for your latest mind game. Don’t insult my intelligence by denying it. Just get on with it. I’ll play.”
“Oh you will?”
“Yes. If you play it according to Hoyle. Cheat, and I leave the game.”
“All cards on the table. You may rely on that.”
“I may doubt it. Whose move?”
“Yours only. Confide and we concede.”
Number Two walks into his kitchen like it belongs to him. Which it does, in a manner of speaking.
“Breakfast?” Smiles. “That was the deal, wasn’t it?”
“You can cook?”
“Not really. But I know people who can.”
The front door whirrs open. His next uninvited guest strolls in.
“Do come in.”
A woman holding a breakfast tray. Caucasian female, dark hair in a bun, medium height, slender build. Narrow face, possibly Slavic features. Sailor’s cap. Prim maid’s uniform, crisp white apron, dark blue garment with lace frills.
“Oh, Number 58, let me introduce you to Number Six.”
“Don’t be shy, my dear.”
The woman curtseys.
“She may be a mere Number 58, but she used to work in Records.”
“Chelsea Drugstore?”
“You are quite the wit. Different sort of records, of course. She has a great variety of information, haven’t you?”
Number Two turns to her, and they hold a conversation in gibberish. The language sounds fraudulent. Snippets of Slav, tossed in a blender. Reminds him of an old Sid Caesar routine.
“Annenukat ta’enen zabot, hm?”
“Ohna. Mija ista juksa boto.”
“Zabot. Vee.”
“Wonderful gift. Photographic memory, you know. She’s done well. She won’t be here long.”
“That makes two of us.”
Number Two puts a crepe on his plate. His Prisoner takes a bite. Offers a grudging compliment.
“Nicely done.”
“International cuisine. The best.”
“French?”
“International.”
“Toast?”
“I haven’t seen any cards yet.”
“You’re the wild card ...”
“Show your hand or get out. Why are you here?”
He slams his fork into the plate and gets up.
“I’m not being evasive, Number Six. I’m here because of your recent ... episode.”
“My latest chess game? Or yours?”
“Yes. My predecessor informed me in great detail. You did all the wrong things for all the right reasons. You were thinking of others, not yourself. Your motives were quite altruistic.”
“I’ve learned my lesson. I dropped my guard, now I won’t. What do you want?”
“We only ...”
“Save it. You’ll ruin my appetite.”
“Marmalade?”
“Thank you.”
The radio blares of its own accord.
“Good morning! Congratulations on yet another day! Today will be dry, some cloud perhaps, but enjoy yourselves.”
Number Two smirks. Broaches the matter he came here to discuss.
“What a piece of luck. We start our election campaign today. Showery outlook is very depressing, don’t you think?”
“Elections? In this place?!”
“Of course. Every citizen has a choice. We make our choice every 12 months.”
“And install a new Number Two every other week. I don’t recall any elections.”
“These are special elections. You must keep up with politics. Citizens have a choice, that’s the point. Are you thinking of running?”
Here we go. At last we’ve reached the point of this surprise visit. Just pops up spontaneously in conversation. Have you thought about running? They’re usually not that clumsy.
“I mean that in all sincerity, Number Six. Have you ever thought of running?”
“Yes. Like blazes, the first chance I get.”
“What a wonderful sense of humor you have.”
“Of the gallows variety. It’s my Irish side.”
“Humor is the very essence of a democratic society.”
“Funny. I always thought it was voting.”
“Oh, that’s good. Now please stop dodging my question. Have you thought about running for office?”
“Whose?”
“Mine, for instance.”
“I see you have your own sense of humor.”
“I’m not joking.”
“No, of course not. You’ve just played your hand. It’s what you want isn’t it?”
“Number Six, Number Six. What matters is what—”
“Save it.”
He forks another bit of crepe in his mouth. Tries to eat, but a trumpet fanfare from the radio spoils his appetite. Another band seems to be playing outside. Number Two gets up. He follows him.
They go out the balcony facing the Village Square. He looks down.
A whole marching band is, in fact, playing. Surrounded by a parade of Villagers waving signs. Trotting in formation on the street at the edge of the Village Square.
The Villagers are chanting. Holding up campaign posters of his uninvited guest. And chanting like football fans ...
“Number Two! Number Two!”
“It looks like a unanimous majority,” he says.
“That’s been worrying me. Very bad for morale.”
“Spoils the illusion?”
“Spoils the reality. Some of these good people don’t appreciate the value of free elections. They think it’s a game.”
“Everyone votes for a dictator.”
“Not at all.”
Number Two pauses significantly.
“Frankly, my dear fellow, you are just the sort of candidate we need.”
“Number Two! Number Two!”
“What happens if I run against you? I might as well.”
“For altruistic motives?”
“Partly. But mostly my dark sense of humor.”
“Delightful.”
“What physically happens if I win?”
“You’re the boss.”
“Number One’s the boss.”
“Join me.”
They exit the cottage, and walk together through the throng. An idolatrous crowd, all carrying Number Two’s image. They break into cheers when they see him in the flesh. They don’t stop cheering. They’re whirring rattles, blowing horns, a brass band is playing. A carnival atmosphere. And he always hated carnivals.
Number Two steps into the buggy. He joins him. The procession moves down the street.
Number 2 waves graciously in acknowledgment of the clamorous accord. Then turns, and says matter-of-factly.
“If you win, Number One will no longer be a mystery to you.”
He laughs out loud at the thought.
“Anyway, I’ll introduce you properly, and see how you feel after assessing the madding crowd. Shall we?”
He shrugs. Why not?
They go outside. The madding crowd is waiting but temporarily silent. They get inside a buggy. Number 58 is at the wheel. Number Two nods. They drive off. The chanting crowd follows.
“Number Two, Number Two!”
The parade ends at the Village Square. They enter the pillared balcony on the shadowy side, come out in the sunlight. The crowd on the green below is holding signs and colored umbrellas. They start up a rhythmical chant. The bass drum keeps time.
“We want No. 2. We want No 2.”
Number Two picks up a megaphone and speaks.
“Good people of our community...”
“Rah! Rah! Rah!”
What’s he up to?
“There is a lack of opposition in the matter of free elections. This isn’t good for our community, and reflects an acceptance of things as they are. We know what to do. What must we do?”
The crowd answers with a new chant.
“Progress! Progress! Progress! Progress!”
Number Two nods agreement. Holds up a hand for silence. Gets it.
“Exactly. We are very fortunate in having with us a recent recruit, whose outlook is particularly militant and individualistic.”
“Rah, Rah!”
“Let us hope he will not deny his duty by refusing to take up the challenge. It is my pleasure to present to you the one and only Number Six!”
The crowd applauds. Number Two hands him the megaphone. He takes it. The throng below. is rattling drums and cymbals and shouting with thunderous acclaim And he hasn’t even said anything yet.
He might not say anything at all.
Just hand the megaphone back to Number Two.
Never say a word. Refuse to take up the challenge.
But if he turns his back now, what happens? They’ll drive home the lesson of the chess game. They’ll tell the Villagers he’s a lone wolf, a selfish bastard, and never on their side. If he runs for office? They’ll set him up to lose. Walk away now. Don’t play. He still has a chance to quit this game. But what if he actually won? Even in a rigged election? Find a way to beat the system. Worth a try.
So he speaks.
“I am not a number. I am a person.”
The Villagers laugh convulsively. Like he’s just said a dirty joke.
“At some time, at some place, all of you held positions of a secret nature and had knowledge that was invaluable to an enemy. Like me, you are here to have that knowledge protected... or extracted.”
Number Two leans over. Whispers conspiratorially.
“That’s the stuff!”
“Unlike me, many of you have accepted your situation and will die here like rotten cabbages.”
The crowd stands in shock. Dead silence.
Number Two whispers.
“Cabbages rot, old boy. But keep going. They love it.”
“The rest of you have gone over to our keepers. Which is which? How many of each? Who’s standing beside you now? I intend to discover who are the prisoners and who the warders. I shall be running for office in this election.”
He returns the megaphone to Number Two. He takes it, and fills the air with more amplified banality.
“Good people, let us applaud a citizen of character. May the better man win, and a big hand for Number Six!”
As he says this, several Villagers flip their Number Two campaign placards. Revealing the smiling face of Number Six on the other side. He’s not surprised. But for a second or two, he’s still shocked.
Obscene caricature of free choice. As if, in the spur of the moment, Number Two’s devoted followers spontaneously switched loyalties. And just happened to be carrying two-faced signs.
How do They pull this off? Did these Villagers rehearse their lines in the middle of the night? Did some functionary hand them their signs? “All right, the second Number Six announces his candidacy, be sure to flip your sign. Make sure he doesn’t see the other side until then. Be seeing you.”
Transparent fraud. The Village is run by con artists. But this con is hardly artful. They have the resources to make it more convincing, but don’t even bother.
Why?
This train of thought distracts him. Number Two takes the opportunity to abandon him to the madding crowd. They’re advancing on him now, complete with brass band, confetti, and groping hands.
Thanks to his head start, Number Two’s already in a buggy. Picks up a megaphone. “Be seeing you,” he says. Drives off.
The crowd boils out of the square and grabs him. That odd woman drives up in a buggy. And rescues him.
“Bita dee naist gorovisch, dit.”
She drives off. The crowd howls.
“Six! Six! Six!”
She drives him back to his cottage. He collapses in bed.
Next morning. He hears a toot outside. Goes out to the balcony and looks down. The woman is sitting in one of their electric buggies. He’d thought he was rid of her. But there she is. Number 58. Waving at him with a toothy grin. He ducks back inside. Calls Number 2 and tells him she’s getting on his nerves.
“Don’t get het up, dear fellow.”
“She will not go away. And she doesn’t even speak English.”
“Precisely. Knowing your prejudices, I didn’t give you a regular. She’s new here and quite delightfully charming, don’t you think?”
“I don’t. And why is she here? Why’d you ‘give’ her to me in the first place? For what purpose?”
“Well. Because of the election, all the rallies and so forth. You need to get around don’t you? Can’t go walking from one end of the Village to the other all day long.”
“What’s the procedure?”
“The transport, with this lady driver, will be at your disposal for the election period, and anything else — within reason.”
“Next?”
“You’ll attend the dissolution of the council, in half an hour’s time in at the Town Hall.”
“Thanks very much.”
He hangs up and walks down to the woman in the buggy. She’s grinning like mad.
“You take me... to the Town Hall.”
“Ereta paz na!”
“The Town Hall.”
“Ah, paz na.”
Number 58 can’t speak English. Doesn’t know Town Hall from Toad Hall. And the masters of this place assigned her as his driver? Something stinks. Or perhaps it’s just incompetence.
“It’s all right, thank you.”
She waves to him to get in.
“I’ll...I’ll walk. It’s all right.”
“Veta mesya,” she pouts. “Dav hey xirini.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
He cuts across the Village Square. She drives around and meets him on the other side. They happen to be standing by the FREE INFORMATION display, with its lighted map of the Village. He beckons her over to it. She walks up like a curious little girl. He pushes the button for Town Hall.
“Here’s the Town Hall.” It lights up on the map. Her eyes light up with understanding. She claps her hands with pride.
“Nota meyroota?”
“That’s it.”
“Hayovgaka! Tic tic!”
They climb in the buggy and drive away. Two reporters follow them and finally catch up. Young man has a camera, old man a notebook. They jump aboard, cub reporter on the bonnet, old bear on the seat behind him. He whirls around and grabs him by the throat.
His driver has the good sense to stop. He releases his grip on the man behind him.
“Congratulations,” says the duffer. Slightly out of breath.
“Come again?”
“I’m Number 113 and this is my photographic colleague ... Number 113B.”
“Smile,” says Number 113B. Snaps his picture.
“We contribute to the local paper, The Tally Ho.”
“Drive on.”
She does. Slowly, so the reporters won’t fall off.
“This is red hot stuff, you know. We haven’t had a candidate of your caliber in ages. It’s quite a story.”
“Congratulations.”
“Mind a few questions?”
“Very much so.”
“Excellent! How will you campaign?”
“No comment.”
The duffer scribbles in his notebook.
“Will fight for freedom...at all costs.”
“Smile!”
“Internal policy?”
“No comment.”
Scribbles.
“Will tighten up Village security.”
The kid on the bonnet snaps his picture again.
“Smile!”
“External policy?”
“No comment.”
“Our exports will operate in every corner of the globe.”
“What about life and death?”
“Mind your own business.”
“No comment.”
“Thanks a lot. Be seeing you.”
They reach the cobblestone plaza outside the Town Hall and park. The two reporters get off. A loudspeaker instantly starts shouting at him. The voice of Number Two demanding his full undivided attention.
“Calling Number Six! Calling Number Six!”
A newsboy by the Tally Ho stand is grinding out the latest edition. Ignoring the loudspeaker, he walks over. The newsboy starts shouting.
“Read all about it! Read all about it! Get your election edition now! Read all about it! Get your election edition now!”
The newsboy tears off a paper, hands it to him. The headline reads ...
NUMBER SIX SPEAKS HIS MIND
Quite a story. It’s all there in black and white. All the things he didn’t say. Five minutes ago. He’s had enough of this farce. He’s going back home. Dropping out of the race. But not really …
Rover appears, roaring behind a statue of Atlas. The spheroid oscillates up to him, and shepherds him to the Town Hall. Nothing for it. He goes where it wants him to go. Passes through the iron gates, enters the building. Another caricature of Edwardian gentility. Bronze busts and heavy furniture. He wanders about. The voice of Number Two starts shouting orders again, now from the P.A. system. Giving directions. Like a game of blind-man’s bluff.
“Not that way. Nor that. Straight ahead. Now. To your left! Your other left!”
He reluctantly follows the directions. They lead him to a set of French doors. He opens them.
In typical Village style, the interior doesn’t match the exterior. The room behind the doors is weirdly modern, industrial. A vast, spherical concavity, like the interior of a planetarium. If this space were a timepiece, Number Two would be sitting at the 12 o’clock position on the dial, holding court in futuristic triangular throne. He’s flanked by a semicircle of boobs. Five on either side. They stand at lecterns, dressed in top hats and silly shirts. The outgoing council, presumably. About to be dissolved. The center of the dial is a dais. Currently unoccupied.
Steep stairs lead down to this Star Chamber. He hesitates at the top. Number Two waves him down.
“Good show! Come ahead, my dear fellow. You are formally welcomed as the prospective opposition candidate. Kindly approach the center dais.”
He stays put. Number Two answer in frustration.
“Play the game!”
“According to Hoyle?”
“According to the laws of democratic society. These are designed for the protection of the citizens. You’re a civilized man and would not, I’m sure, deny the right of proper procedure. I urge you to be civilized! Please approach the center dais.”
He reluctantly walks down the stairs. With the feeling he’s walking into an abattoir. As he descends, Number Two starts pontificating.
“The final resolution of the outgoing council is a vote of thanks to Number Six, It’s carried unanimously ...”
Number Two pounds a gavel like an angry child.
“... and there is no further business at this time.”
He steps up to the dais. Gives Number Two a cold look.
“Questions permitted?”
“Certainly.”
Answer me this, you bastard.
“Where did you get this bunch of tailor’s dummies?”
“They were here when I arrived. Do you wish to question them?”
“I do.”
“Proceed.”
Ten council members. Each as lively as a dead fish. He shouts at them.
“Who do you represent? Who elected you? To what country do you owe allegiance? Whose side are you on?”
“Mustn’t get too personal, my dear fellow.”
Number Two pushes a button. A blue light flashes at the top of his throne.
“Any further questions?”
Not really. But he does have a speech. He looks at the outgoing council with pity and hate and gives it.
“This... farce, this 20th century Bastille that pretends to be a pocket democracy! Why don’t you put us all into solitary confinement, get what you’re after and have done with it?”
Number Two bangs the gavel.
“Enough! I call this meeting to order!”
“Look at them. Brainwashed imbeciles! Can you laugh? Can you cry? Can you think?”
He holds up the Tally Ho announcing his candidacy.
“Is this what they did to you? Is this how they tried to break you till they got what they were after? In your heads still must be the remnant of a brain. In your hearts must be the desire to be a human being again.”
The blue light in Number Two’s throne turns to purple. Throbs angrily.
“This is a most serious breach of etiquette. I imagined your desire to stand for election was genuine.”
Number Two pushes a button. The dais starts spinning.
“I’ll give you a chance. You were carried away by enthusiasm. Nevertheless, the rules demand that you should undergo the Test. All those in favor?”
No response from the council. The tailor’s dummies just stand there. Dull faces whirring past the merry-go-round.
“Carried unanimously,” says Number Two.
He pounds the gavel furiously. The dais spins faster and faster. And keeps accelerating. He hangs on. Until he finally loses consciousness.
Wakes up in a hellish red corridor. Floor doesn’t seem level. Ceiling strung with hand straps like a tube train. He hangs on, walks forward, strap by strap. Staggers into a green room. The place of The Test.
Expecting some kind of Orwellian inquisitor. But the man at the desk in the center is a bland functionary. Straight of the Civil Service. He seems like a nice fellow.
“Hello! They told me you were coming. Do you take sugar? Please let me assure you that I could be a friend.”
“A friend?”
“Yes. We both know They’re watching. It doesn’t prove we are sympathetic. But the community has to live. So must you.”
The nice fellow leads him to a comfy chair.
“Come, have some tea, and we’ll talk.”
“How many lumps?”
“No lumps.”
“No? Good. That shows discipline.
Of course I knew it anyway.”
‘What’s that?”
He points to a big, thick book on his desk.
“From your records. We have everything.”
He flips through his book of days to prove his point.
“Ah. You gave up sugar four years, three months ago on medical advice. That shows you’re afraid of death.”
“I’m afraid of nothing!”
“You’re afraid of yourself.”
A palpable hit. The nice man sees he’s touched a nerve.
“Ah! You’re aware of that. Good, you’re honest. That is of use here. Honesty attracts confidence. And confidences are our business. See how honest I’m being with you. Now please don’t be alarmed.”
“At what?”
The nice man smile pushes a button. The chair pulls him down like a magnet. Or the G-Force of sudden acceleration. The feeling he had that time in the X-Plane. It subsides to a manageable level after a bit. But he still can’t move.
“This is merely the Truth Test, and there’s no need to be alarmed. Don’t bother speaking—your thoughts alone will suffice. Ready?”
No.
The thoughts stay in his head, but don’t escape his mouth. That’s when he realizes he can’t speak.
The nice man seems to be studying a diagram of his thoughts on a screen. That’s his working assumption. But he can’t turn his head to look at it.
“Why did you wish to run for electoral office?”
Bored. Seemed like a lark.
“That is a lie, but it won’t be held against you.”
That’s another lie. Why trust you with truth?
“Please. Everything you think here is in the strictest confidence.”
From whom? Steal my thoughts. Confidence already violated.
“That’s better. Why did you run for office?”
Out of concern for my fellow citizens.
“Come, come. You thought if you won and took over our Village, you would be able to control an organized breakout, correct?”
You damn well know it. Why else would I run?
“Good. But this was a mistake, wasn’t it?”
No. Can’t escape. Still work within system. Change it from inside.
Come, come you’re not being honest. You are on the side of the people, aren’t you?
No such thing. As “the people.” Individuals only. Nothing else exists. On that side — and on my own side first.
“You mustn’t think only of yourself.”
Don’t. True to self. Not same selfishness.
“You have a responsibility. Protect other people!”
Yes. Protect other people.
“Splendid!”
The eternal war in his heart between self and other suddenly ends with a peace agreement. He can move his hands again. Stands to his feet. In a good mood actually.
“Thanks for the tea.”
“Any time.”
They shake hands
“You’re voting for me?”
“Naturally.”
“Be seeing you.
He exits the Town Hall. A happy mob is waiting for him. A blaring band. Hollering supporters. All full of joy or something. Normally that would irritate him. For some reason, it doesn’t. Even those two reporters can’t kill his good mood.
Number 113 appears with a microphone. And shoves it in his face.
“What do you think of your chances?”
“I’m confident.”
Seconds later, Number 113B appears with a bulky TV camera.
“Number Two considers you a worthy opponent.”
“Very kind of him to say so. I’ll do my best.”
Blink. He winds up in the Village TV studio, makes a speech. Blink. Watches himself later on TV. The one in his home-from-home. Number 58 watches with him.
“Rest assured, the community’s interests are mine, and maintaining the security of citizens is my primary objective.”
“Be seeing you.” He says this on the tube.
His TV self makes the Village salute.
He returns the salute in reality.
A happy announcer starts nattering.
“That was the lunchtime news on this election day. It’s going to be close. Stand by for our bulletin every hour!”
Number 58 steps a little closer. Not so bouncy today. Shy, sad. She looks like a lost little girl. Suddenly feeling like a kindly authority figure, he offers kind words. Fatherly advice, really.
“You’ve only been here a short time, but there’s only one thing to learn — obey the rules, and we will take good care of you.”
Puzzled look.
“It’s easy. Try it.”
“Hm? Dai tozno?”
‘Be seeing you.”
He gives her that Village salute. She blinks blandly.
“Intoich bozna?”
He shouts at her. Can’t explain why.
“Try it!”
“Intoich bozna?”
Thought occurs to him. That thing she keeps saying. Lai...eezit...zona. He repeats it back to her.
“Lai ... eezit ... zona.”
She brightens.
“Ah! Lai eezit zona.”
She does that Village salute. Then runs around his flat, repeating her gibberish catch phrase over and over.
“Lai eezit zona! Lai eezit zona. Lai eezit zona.”
The phrase triggers something in his mind. Or untriggers it. He snaps. Runs.
He steals the campaign buggy outside his cottage, drives off. Up ahead, his happy followers are blocking the road.
“Six! “Six! Six”
He almost runs them over, but keeps going. All the way to the beach. He drives the thing across the sand flats until it stalls. Then gets out and runs.
A voice in the sky starts chiding him. Number Two, not God.
“What are you doing?”
“Resigning. It’s what I’m good at.”
“I thought we had an understanding. You were going to play the game, remember?”
“According to Hoyle? Your cards are marked, your deck is stacked. I won’t play.”
“Now you’re being simply foolish.”
“I was foolish to play your game the first place.”
“This sprint won’t get you anywhere. Go back before it’s too late.”
“Go back.”
“Go to hell.”
He runs anyway. Rover inevitably catches him. After that ...
He goes back to school. Liquid. Like Catholic school.
What motivated you to pursue this position?
The community’s interests are very much my own.
What will you do if you win the election?
Maintaining the security of the citizens will be my main objective.
The lesson endures for a measureless time. When it’s finally over, he’s a changed man. Jumps into the campaign with a will. A firm choice. Doesn’t recall making it. But he has.
Blink. He’s standing on the Stone Boat. Addressing a crowd with a megaphone.
“You can enjoy yourselves, and you will. You can partake of the most hazardous sports. The price is cheap. All you have to do in exchange is give us information. You are then eligible for promotion to other, more attractive spheres. Where do you desire to go? What is your dream? I can supply it! Winter, spring, summer or fall can all be yours at any time! Apply to me and it will be easier and better.”
The words roll off his tongue. As he says them, they sound inspired. Shakespearean oratory. The St. Crispin’s Day speech. Words that can change the world.
Right now, that world is limited to a crowd of people from the Old Folks Home.
The old folks cheer.
“Vote for Number Six! Vote for Number Six!”
Blink. Now it’s time for the candidates’ debate in the Village Square. Point-Counterpoint. Number Two gets the first speech. The little Butler shields him from the sun with a striped umbrella. He stands at the edge of the audience and listens, surrounded by a crowd of supporters.
“Your turn will come,” says an earnest young woman. He smiles politely.
“It has,” he says. “It has.”
He notices that all of his people are standing. But Number Two’s people are all sitting in chairs around the square. Tired. Weak. Do something with that.
Number Two waves. He ignores him. His opponent sighs, taps the microphone and begins.
“There are those who come here with a fresh face, and an enthusiasm that cannot be denied. Beware. Be careful. Their promises ring richly in your ears. Our friend Number Six has a splendid record. He has adapted himself admirably to our procedure. But he has no experience whatsoever of the manipulation of such a community as ours. Beware. Has he got the administrative ability to implement his policies? Can you trust him? The issue is as simple of that. I yield to ...”
He breaks Robert’s Rules of order. And starts speaking without permission.
“My opponent speaks of manipulation. I’m sure he has plenty of experience. Are you going to sit still for this? Many of you are. But I’m tired of sitting. Get up on your feet and follow me. Or stay here and listen to your manipulator. I’m leaving.”
He strides away. His followers follow.
He takes his rebuttal to the street. Pulls half the crowd away from Number Two, along with his own die-hard supporters. He climbs into a buggy, and it drives off. Number 58 is now at the wheel. Clever girl. She’s solved the problem of the language barrier by pinning A Map of Your Village and marking the destinations in red. Seems unnecessary with a photographic memory. But he’s too happy to dwell on it.
They drive through the winding streets. Brisk pace. His joyful constituency trots along, trying to keep up. A brass band at the back of the parade tries hardest of all. He looks back at his running followers. Bellows his latest speech from a megaphone.
“Place your trust the old regime, the policies are defined, the future certain. The old regime forever! And the old Number Two forever. Confession by coercion — is that what you want? Vote for him and you’ll have it. Or stand firm upon this electoral platform and speak a word without fear. The word is freedom. They say six of one and half a dozen of the other. Not here. It’s Six for Two, and Two for nothing ... And Six for free for all, for free for all. Vote! Vote!”
Once again, the words flow out of him. Once again, the crowd is moved by his ineluctable logic.
“Six! Six! Six! Six! Six!”
The parade comes full circle to the Village Square. Number Two is still standing, exactly where he left him. A scattering of his supporters also remain. Still sitting.
“You seem to be doing well.”
“Far be it for me to carp, but what do you do in your spare time?”
“I cannot afford spare time.”
“You hear that? He’s working to his limit — can’t afford spare time! We’re all entitled to spare time! Leisure is our right!”
This energizes a few of Number Two’s sleepwalkers. They get up from their chairs. Join his side. And they all start chanting …
“Six for Two! Six for Two! Six for Two! Six for Two!”
Number Two tosses him another question. His idea of a clever riposte.
“In your spare time, if you get it, what will you do?”
“Less work ... and more play!”
Who can argue with that? The crowd goes wild.
“Six! Six! Six! Six!”
The brass band on the lawn starts playing. He blinks. Now he’s listening to the automatic band at the cat and Mouse. The night club. Villagers are eating and drinking. Blink. He was standing in the Village Square. Blink.. Now he’s here. Day, now night. No transition. Like a bad cut in a movie. What ...
A waitress approaches. Sailor hat. She robotically recites her lines.
“Non-alcoholic gin, whisky, vodka. Looks the same, tastes the same.”
He sneers at her.
“No, it’s not the same. You can’t get tiddly.”
“No alcohol, sir.”
He spots the Number Six button on her blouse.
“You voting for me?”
“You and only you.”
She gushes this adoringly, like a pop star groupie. A fan. He doesn’t want fans.
“Go away,” he says.
She pouts and resets. Like a recording at a railway station.
“Gin, whisky, vodka. Looks and tastes the same.”
He pounds the table with his fist.
“Get out.”
The waitress flees.
That funny foreign woman is looking at him stupidly. Smiling like a stock character in a Peter Sellars movie. A bit too pat. Smart wolf in stupid clothing. Not as stupid as she looks.
“You’re spying on me, aren’t you?”
She blinks vacuously. Not comprehending.
“Get me a drink.”
“Kaka si traka ka mookni.”
He holds up his glass by way of illustration.
“Alcoholic drink.”
“Kaka si tracka si mookni, nasda.
“A drink!”
He shatters the glass on the floor. Her eyes fill with terror. But not illumination.
He grabs a pen from the waitress, sketches a whiskey bottle on a napkin, and hands it to Number 58. Comprehension dawns in her eyes.
“Oh! Slootcha!”
She grabs him by the arm and pulls him out of this alcohol-free pub. He starts singing. As if he had been drinking. And it feels that way.
“Vote for Six! Vote for Six! Vote for me.”
“E vata.”
He assumes that’s gibberish for “shut up.” But he keeps singing.
“I’m for you. Let me be. Never let me go. Never let me go... Vote for me...”
“Hen droichtna. E vata.”
“I’ll be ever so comforting ...”
“Droitcha. Droitcha.
Outside. Night. No moon. She drags him to the transport. Drive him off to the edge of Village civilization. They stop, and get out at a sculpture garden. Bust of Voltaire with cameras for eyes. But he’s looking in the wrong direction.
She leads him down a path. Points to a dark cave at path’s end. Pantomimes a gesture of downing a shot.
“Slootcha.”
Points to the cave again. Then tries to run off. He grabs her by the shoulders. Gives her a knowing look.
“You’re spying on me, aren’t you?”
“Slootcha.”
She pushes him away and scarpers. He resumes his nonsensical ditty and walks towards the cave.
“Vote for me. I’m for you. Let me be... and let me... be.”
Enters cave. No illumination for the first ten meters. Turn a bend. Darkness turns to electric light. A large vaulted chamber. Quite a set-up. Roaring log fire, distillery. And a man walking about in an apron adjusting things. Another man. Huddled under a blanket in the corner. Sitting in a chair. Drinking. The aproned man approaches him. Can’t be real.
He closes his eyes, reopens them. The scene is still there.
The aproned man attends to the shrouded figure.
“Large or small, sir?”
“A double.”
“With or without water, sir?”
“Without.”
The aproned man notices him.
“Take a seat, I’ll be right with you.”
He sits beside the wretch in the blanket. The man turns and looks at him. It’s Number Two. Who smiles with a guilty expression.
“A little drop now and again keeps the nerves steady.”
“You’re scared, aren’t you?”
“Frankly, yes.”
“Of what?”
“It may seem improbable, but I’m wondering what’ll happen to you.”
The aproned man appears, hands his new guest a drink. He takes it. Looks around the room for cameras. Number Two smiles bitterly.
“Don’t worry, there’s no surveillance here. This is the Therapy Zone.”
“Clever, aren’t you?!”
“They are. Damn clever. If you want to be an alcoholic, you can be one here in privacy. So long as you rejoin the flock in good time.”
“You don’t approve?”
“Of the Village?”
“Yes.”
“To hell with the Village.”
“Cheers.”
They clink glasses together.
Number Two points at the man in the apron. Starts whispering again.
“See him?”
“Yeah.”
“Cheers.”
“He’s a brilliant scientist. Just does that for a hobby.”
Number Two nods significantly, conspiratorially.
“Come with me, I’ll show you something.”
They get up. Number Two leads him to a small gallery with a blackboard. There’s a complicated equation on it. Beyond his pay grade.
Number Two points to the blackboard.
“This is the desired result, eh? You know what that means?”
“Not the foggiest.”
“Neither do I. But he’s one of three people on this planet who do ... So we leave him here in peace. He brews his brew, plays with chalk. Once a week we photograph the stuff, and clean it up so that he can start on another lot.”
Number Two laughs hysterically. He can’t help laughing too.
“Clever as hell. Cheers.”
They drink, wander back to their seats. Number Two bursts into song.
“Vote for me...”
He joins in on the second line.
“Vote for me...”
“Oh you’ve heard this one?”
He nods. They resume their two-part harmony.
“And I’ll be...”
“I’ll be ever so comforting...”
“Ever so...”
His memory cuts out after that. No recollection of how he got home, when he got out of bed, but he must have done it. Now? Daytime again. Sun hurts his eyes. Parades, speeches. Speeches, parades. He sleepwalks through it all. On automatic pilot. Like watching an actor in a movie. Oddly, it’s the story of his life.
His head gradually clears, but still feels like he’s underwater.
At the end of the sensory overload, he’s standing with Number Two in front of a ballot box by the Green Dome. The box is stuffed with buttons indicating Six. He won? Won what? It’s his number. But he is not a number. What just happened?
Oh. He just won the election. Right.
Looks up. A crowd is standing in front of him. He smiles at them. The crowd smiles back.
“Six for Two! Six for Two!”
He looks down at a ballet box stuffed with Sixes.
Landslide, apparently.
Number Two walks up with a sad, philosophical expression on his face.
“I don’t think we’ll need a recount.”
“Sorry. Sorry.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“We want Number Two! We want Number Two... !”
“Looks as if they want Number Two. Well, I haven’t cast my vote.”
The old Number Two takes off his badge. Then pins it on his lapel.
“I guess you’re it. Congratulations.”
“We want Number Two! Number Two! Number Two!”
They’re still chanting. Then the chant dies off.
“Come with me. I’ll show you the ropes.”
They walk down the steps to the waiting crowd. Number Two takes his right hand, lifts it up in a victory gesture. But his supporters are suddenly dead-eyed and slack-jawed. They get in the buggy. He waves to his supporters. They don’t cheer or wave back. The woman drives them off to the Green Dome.
Number Two takes him by the hand like a child. Leads him up the steps to the Green Dome. The woman follows.
They enter the foyer. The Little Butler isn’t there.
The metal doors open. And they enter the place of power.
“Is there some sort of owner’s manual?”
“No point going into detail,” says Number Two. “Anything you want, press a button — you’re the New Boss.”
The Old Boss smiles.
“I’ll be on my way. Thanks for everything.”
Number Two strides up the ramp with a merry air. The metal doors open, close.
Now he’s all alone with that woman. They move about examining the place. She runs about like an excited little girl. Runs up to the control desk. Her eyes go wide at the array of buttons.
“Aka bo’itsa, boita.”
She pushes a button. The spherical chair pops up.
“Ahh! Kikato!”
Pushes another button. The big screen reveals points of view from different CCTV cams. The montage ends with a close-up of his face. Live feed from this room. She spins and claps her hands together.
“Oh! Tik tik tik!”
Runs back to the desk. pushes another button. The bland functionary who gave him The Test appears on the screen. She hands him a phone.
“Anything I can do for you?” he says.
“Just checking.”
“Be seeing you.”
“And you.”
She pushes more buttons. Chairs pop in and out of the floor.
“Boita. Boita. Boita!”
Chaos. Blinking lights, whirring motors, a dance of chairs. Irritating and distracting. Puts him in a daze. Then a light starts pulsing in the ceiling. He freezes.
“Tic tic,” she says.
Then takes him by the hand and walks him up to the curved Cinerama screen along one wall. It’s flashing with a spinning light display. he studies it. Hypnotic. But not the kind of hypnotism that puts you to sleep. More like a trigger ..
She turns him away from the screen, plucks the Number Two badge from his lapel. Then snaps her fingers in his face.
“Tic tic,” she says.
She slaps him viciously — professionally.
“Tic tic,” she says again. Then slaps him again.
After the third or fourth time, he finally comes to his senses. The conditioning, the drug, whatever they did to him finally breaks. He collapses in the egg chair. She stands there smirking. Last chance to act. He leaps up, goes to the desk.
He grabs two of the cordless phones. Shouts into them. Pushes buttons frantically.
“This is our chance! This is our chance — take it now. Wherever you are, listen to me.”
He can hear his voice echoing from the loudspeakers outside. He knows the Villagers can hear him. Starting a revolution, perhaps. He doubts it. But he keeps on urging rebellion of sheer stubbornness.
That woman is walking up to him.
“I will immobilize all electronic controls. Listen to me, you are free to go!”
The metal doors slide open behind him. He doesn’t turn to look, but hears something metallic rolling down the ramp. Grocery cart. Roller skates. Stretcher. He shouts one last time.
“Free to go! Free to go! You are free to go! You are free, free. Free to go! You are free to go!”
His voice echoes through The Village, echoes in this room, echoes in his skull.
The sound system splits his ears with a screech of feedback. But he keeps shouting.
“I am in command, obey and be free! You are free to go! You are free to go, free to go!”
Two thugs pop up from the holes in the floor. They try to grab him. He breaks the grip, runs through a small set of automatic doors. Bursts in on some kind of ... religious ceremony? A circle of men in sunglasses surrounding Rover?
He’s distracted. One thug takes the opportunity to give him a kidney punch.
That knocks him to the floor, but they hold him up again, two men on either side. Grabbing him by either arm and pulling in opposite directions. Like he’s a human wishbone. Or a human punching bag. As if on cue, a third thug pops out of the floor, walks over, and starts gut-punching him viciously. Eight times. Ten. He loses count.
They drag him back to the control room and hold him on his feet. So he can get a good look. At the funny, foreign woman. Who is now not so childlike. Who is now the new Number Two. Cold and sneering. And speaking to him in perfect English.
“Will you never learn? This is only the beginning. We have many ways, but we don’t wish to damage you. Are you ready to talk?”
“Lai eezit zona.”
He tries to say it. But can’t talk.
The thugs plop him down ion the stretcher. And roll him away to the ambulance below.
Another morning. He wakes up in his own bed, all bandaged up. A jovial bearded man is sitting at his side. A bit plump. Reminds him of Falstaff. Or Father Christmas.
“Remember me?”
“No. Should I?”
“Absolutely not. How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been punched in the gut by thugs. Worse than that ... I feel like a fool.”
“Oh don’t be so hard on yourself, Number Six. You’re no fool. We’re just so very, very good. Ha! What do you know about psychology?”
“Not very much compared to you.”
“Exactly my point! Ha. In terms of the science of the human mind, we’re 20 years ahead of the rest of the world ... perhaps 50 in some areas. Listen. I’ll let you in on a little secret ... there’s no such thing as free will. Ha! It’s a scientific fact.”
“Spare me your Skinnerite nonsense.”
“Oh, we’re light years beyond Skinner. Ha! We can plant dreams in your head. We can tap into your visual cortex and see what you see. We can’t read thoughts .... yet. But it’s only a matter of time. You see my point, Number Six?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
“Sorry I can’t get up and punch you in the face.”
“Haven’t changed, have you? I’ll spell it out for you...”
“Leave me alone.”
“You’re outclassed. You can’t win. It’s not a fair fight, so you might as well give up. No shame in that, eh?”
“Not to you.”
“’Not to me?’ What on earth do you mean? I don’t feel ashamed. Why should I?”
He thinks, then snaps his fingers.
“Oh ... I see! Because I broke? Gave up? Gave in? Any decent person would hate themselves. But I’m a bad person, so I don’t. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“You ...”
“Oh shut up. Just this once, please spare me the moral superiority. I’m sick to death of it! And you know what? You’re not superior, my friend. You’re really not. You’ll break, I assure you. It’s a scientific fact. I hope to be there when it happens. I might even enjoy it. No shame in that, eh? Be seeing you.”
The jovial man smiles and walks out.
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