ures which had something to do with the production of

pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like

a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the
right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice
sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the
telescreen, it was called) could be
dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the
window: a smallish, frail figure,
the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue
overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was
very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by
coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world
looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were
whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the
sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed
to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were
plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio’d face gazed
down from every commanding corner. There was one on
the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS
WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes
looked deep into Winston’s own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one
corner, flapped fitfully in the wind,
alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a
helicopter skimmed down
between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle,
and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping
into people’s windows. The patrols did it, he heard a slight sigh behind him. When
he turned around, he found the
surgical table gone, and he stood in an empty compartment.
Through the doorway, he could see a small table and moved slowly toward
it. His meal had appeared in the small wall-niche that was the food dispenser,
while he slowly walked to the table. He sat in the very functional but
uncomfortable chair.
He placed a bowl of thin oatmeal and a cup of weak tea on the table. The
oatmeal looked neither substantial nor appetizing, but Murdock began eating.
While he ate, a screen came to life showing views of the outside while an unseen
male spoke…
“You are aboard a transport pod that has landed on the surface of a planet,
and it will never leave. During your journey, between one hundred fifty and three
hundred fifty years have elapsed on our planet, though only two to three years
have elapsed for you physically. This transport pod may, or may not, be the first,
but it is not the only one. Every five years, another pod will land within a
twenty-mile radius of this one. Each successive pod will increase your
population by a factor of ten.
“This pod’s batteries will last three hundred sixty-five, twenty-four hour days
— one year, as each of you is used to, if steps are taken to preserve the energy
stored in them and the solar panels are kept clear of debris.
“You were not sent here to die, but to survive, if you can. You will find, in
compartments accessible from the outside, weapons, tools, and a limited supply
of food.
“Trying to return to Earth is a waste of time and effort. Your old planet no
longer exists. It is now our planet. Your planet, now, is the one you are on, if
you
can tame it. You were sent away because none of you are compatible with our
requirements, but some of your progeny might be. Good luck.”
The screen went blank.
Murdock had just finished his meager meal, which turned out to be more
filling than it looked, when he heard the door open. A young woman came
through the door looking haggard and disoriented. He estimated her age to be
about the same as his, maybe a little younger. She was nicely built, with light