They stood out in his mind disconnectedly, like pictures with blackness all round them.
He was in a cell which might have been either dark or light, because he could see nothing except a pair of eyes.
Near at hand some kind of instrument was ticking slowly and regularly.
The eyes grew larger and more luminous.
Suddenly he floated out of his seat, dived into the eyes, and was swallowed up.
He was strapped into a chair surrounded by dials, under dazzling lights.
A man in a white coat was reading the dials.
There was a tramp of heavy boots outside.
The door clanged open.
The waxed-faced officer marched in, followed by two guards.
'Room 101,' said the officer.
The man in the white coat did not turn round.
He did not look at Winston either; he was looking only at the dials.
He was rolling down a mighty corridor, a kilometre wide, full of glorious, golden light, roaring with laughter and shouting out confessions at the top of his voice.
He was confessing everything, even the things he had succeeded in holding back under the torture.
He was relating the entire history of his life to an audience who knew it already.
With him were the guards, the other questioners, the men in white coats, O'Brien, Julia, Mr Charrington, all rolling down the corridor together and shouting with laughter.
Some dreadful thing which had lain embedded in the future had somehow been skipped over and had not happened.
Everything was all right, there was no more pain, the last detail of his life was laid bare, understood, forgiven.
He was starting up from the plank bed in the half-certainty that he had heard O'Brien's voice.
All through his interrogation, although he had never seen him, he had had the feeling that O'Brien was at his elbow, just out of sight.
It was O'Brien who was directing everything.
It was he who set the guards on to Winston and who prevented them from killing him.
It was he who decided when Winston should scream with pain, when he should have a respite, when he should be fed, when he should sleep, when the drugs should be pumped into his arm.
It was he who asked the questions and suggested the answers.
He was the tormentor, he was the protector, he was the inquisitor, he was the friend.
And once--Winston could not remember whether it was in drugged sleep, or in normal sleep, or even in a moment of wakefulness--a voice murmured in his ear:
'Don't worry, Winston; you are in my keeping.
For seven years I have watched over you.
Now the turning-point has come.
I shall save you, I shall make you perfect.'
He was not sure whether it was O'Brien's voice; but it was the same voice that had said to him,
'We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,' in that other dream, seven years ago.
He did not remember any ending to his interrogation.
There was a period of blackness and then the cell, or room, in which he now was had gradually materialized round him.
He was almost flat on his back, and unable to move.
His body was held down at every essential point.
Even the back of his head was gripped in some manner.
O'Brien was looking down at him gravely and rather sadly.
His face, seen from below, looked coarse and worn, with pouches under the eyes and tired lines from nose to chin.
He was older than Winston had thought him; he was perhaps forty-eight or fifty.
Under his hand there was a dial with a lever on top and figures running round the face.
'I told you,' said O'Brien, 'that if we met again it would be here.'
'Yes,' said Winston.
Without any warning except a slight movement of O'Brien's hand, a wave of pain flooded his body.
It was a frightening pain, because he could not see what was happening, and he had the feeling that some mortal injury was being done to him.
He did not know whether the thing was really happening, or whether the effect was electrically produced; but his body was being wrenched out of shape, the joints were being slowly torn apart.
Although the pain had brought the sweat out on his forehead, the worst of all was the fear that his backbone was about to snap.
He set his teeth and breathed hard through his nose, trying to keep silent as long as possible.
'You are afraid,' said O'Brien, watching his face, 'that in another moment something is going to break.