head was a blazing, flaming agony and he was only dimly aware of his body.
‘Don’t give me that. I ain’t falling for it. They’ve tried that one before.’
The two men took him by the arms and lifted him from the bed to his feet.
‘Come on. Get up. We ain’t so dumb as you think.’
They let go of him and he collapsed.
‘Ah, come on. Get up.’ One of them kicked him in the side. He felt the blow dimly.
He was lifted again and carried out of the room. He never remembered anything more.
G ood afternoon, Number Six.’ The television woke him and he came slowly to consciousness, eyes burning and dry, throat parched, lips cracked, tongue stale.
A group of men appeared on the screen. Soldiers in uniform, carrying rifles and surrounding:
Number 157, head down, stumbling forward, hands chained behind his back. A priest walked at his side, reading from a book.
The soldiers led him to a post, lashed him to it.
He was crying, face swollen with fear. He closed his eyes and bowed before the priest.
The priest touched a hand to his head, made the sign of the cross.
The soldiers put a blindfold over his eyes, stepped away.
The priest followed.
‘Ready!’ He heard the call faint but clear.
‘Aim!’
There was a pause.
‘Fire!’
The after silence was loud and sharp.
B ut today it was:
‘FREE HIM NOW! NOW! NOW! FREE HIM NOW —’ The cry was deep and loud and threatening. ‘FREE HIM NOW! NOW! NOW —’ It had the rhythmic inevitability of a freight train roaring past in the night. ‘NOW! NOW! NOW —’ The faces of the protesters (young, long-haired, lank and angry) smouldered with resentment. ‘NOW NOW NOW —’
‘Your advocates, Number Six.’
‘Your rebels, Number Two.’
‘They are trying to save your life, after all.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘It won’t do you any good, you know.’
‘I hadn’t expected it to.’
‘You’re really a fortunate man you know. If you hadn’t caught cold when you did, you’d be dead by now. This is probably the first time in your life you’ve ever been thankful for the flu.’
‘NOW! NOW! NOW!’ They were on the steps of the Village Hall, fists raised to the blank grey windows. A line of guards stood before the doors, arms linked, faces bewildered and uncertain.
‘And why,’ an announcer’s voice crackled from the speaker, ‘are you doing this, Number Five Sixty-nine?’
‘Cause it’s unfair, man.’ His thick blond hair stirred in the wind. He looked strong and righteous. ‘Number Six didn’t do anything. He didn’t know anything about that dope. The courts proved that. It was left there by the guy who lived in the house before. Number Six is innocent. He should go free.’
‘I see.’ The newscaster was in his thirties and had close-cropped hair. ‘Well, why are you marching on the Village Hall?’
‘Because we’ve tried to talk to these people, with Number Two particularly. And they’ve refused to reconsider the case or even to speak to us.’
‘And what do you plan to do if the police block the way?’
‘Then we’ll break through.’
‘You’re willing to use violence.’
‘If they won’t listen to anything else.’
‘But isn’t it true that Number Two himself made a personal plea for —’ The sound cut off.
‘An amusing situation, really. This young man thinks he can intimidate us.’
‘What will you do?’
‘That’s right. You won’t be around to see it. Will you, Number Six? That’s too bad. I’m afraid we haven’t made a decision yet. But we will and it will be an effective one. We have our ways, as you know.’
He said nothing.
‘And yet, Number Six, you might still save yourself. You have only to co-operate and be set free.’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Don’t be too hasty. Is this secret more valuable than your life?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Then I wish you luck with it. Tomorrow is your execution.’
It seemed likely, then, that whatever they were going to
‘Don’t give me that. I ain’t falling for it. They’ve tried that one before.’
The two men took him by the arms and lifted him from the bed to his feet.
‘Come on. Get up. We ain’t so dumb as you think.’
They let go of him and he collapsed.
‘Ah, come on. Get up.’ One of them kicked him in the side. He felt the blow dimly.
He was lifted again and carried out of the room. He never remembered anything more.
G ood afternoon, Number Six.’ The television woke him and he came slowly to consciousness, eyes burning and dry, throat parched, lips cracked, tongue stale.
A group of men appeared on the screen. Soldiers in uniform, carrying rifles and surrounding:
Number 157, head down, stumbling forward, hands chained behind his back. A priest walked at his side, reading from a book.
The soldiers led him to a post, lashed him to it.
He was crying, face swollen with fear. He closed his eyes and bowed before the priest.
The priest touched a hand to his head, made the sign of the cross.
The soldiers put a blindfold over his eyes, stepped away.
The priest followed.
‘Ready!’ He heard the call faint but clear.
‘Aim!’
There was a pause.
‘Fire!’
The after silence was loud and sharp.
B ut today it was:
‘FREE HIM NOW! NOW! NOW! FREE HIM NOW —’ The cry was deep and loud and threatening. ‘FREE HIM NOW! NOW! NOW —’ It had the rhythmic inevitability of a freight train roaring past in the night. ‘NOW! NOW! NOW —’ The faces of the protesters (young, long-haired, lank and angry) smouldered with resentment. ‘NOW NOW NOW —’
‘Your advocates, Number Six.’
‘Your rebels, Number Two.’
‘They are trying to save your life, after all.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘It won’t do you any good, you know.’
‘I hadn’t expected it to.’
‘You’re really a fortunate man you know. If you hadn’t caught cold when you did, you’d be dead by now. This is probably the first time in your life you’ve ever been thankful for the flu.’
‘NOW! NOW! NOW!’ They were on the steps of the Village Hall, fists raised to the blank grey windows. A line of guards stood before the doors, arms linked, faces bewildered and uncertain.
‘And why,’ an announcer’s voice crackled from the speaker, ‘are you doing this, Number Five Sixty-nine?’
‘Cause it’s unfair, man.’ His thick blond hair stirred in the wind. He looked strong and righteous. ‘Number Six didn’t do anything. He didn’t know anything about that dope. The courts proved that. It was left there by the guy who lived in the house before. Number Six is innocent. He should go free.’
‘I see.’ The newscaster was in his thirties and had close-cropped hair. ‘Well, why are you marching on the Village Hall?’
‘Because we’ve tried to talk to these people, with Number Two particularly. And they’ve refused to reconsider the case or even to speak to us.’
‘And what do you plan to do if the police block the way?’
‘Then we’ll break through.’
‘You’re willing to use violence.’
‘If they won’t listen to anything else.’
‘But isn’t it true that Number Two himself made a personal plea for —’ The sound cut off.
‘An amusing situation, really. This young man thinks he can intimidate us.’
‘What will you do?’
‘That’s right. You won’t be around to see it. Will you, Number Six? That’s too bad. I’m afraid we haven’t made a decision yet. But we will and it will be an effective one. We have our ways, as you know.’
He said nothing.
‘And yet, Number Six, you might still save yourself. You have only to co-operate and be set free.’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Don’t be too hasty. Is this secret more valuable than your life?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Then I wish you luck with it. Tomorrow is your execution.’
It seemed likely, then, that whatever they were going to
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