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The room was warm and white, empty except for the sitting man. He
waited,
quietly, feeling the weight of his arms hanging loose over the
chair and
the weight of his body holding him down, feeling the freshness on
his chin
where the drool ran, waited, counting his heartbeats.
Presently, there was a soft click behind him and a murmur of cold
air.
Someone walked in. He felt hands on his shoulders, neck,
straightening his
head and putting something on his shoulders, something that
pushed against
the skin and held his head upright. No words. The person left,
and with
that soft click the room was empty again.
Soon, he slept, not because he was tired but because he had to,
as if even
that was beyond his control.
"Daddy?"
He woke up, as if he'd been awake already, as if the room had
been dark and
the lights switched on. Helen! No shout came.
She was sitting twenty feet away, hair dishevelled, wearing her
blue and
white nightdress, a scared nine year old in bare feet, in an
empty room.
Her hands were folded on her lap.
"Daddy? I was at home and some men came and said you wanted
to see me, and
then they must've taken me here. Why are we here, Daddy? Please
talk to
me! I can't move and I want to go home and please talk to me,
Daddy!
Pleeeease!"
Move! He fought, strained, had to, had to just get... up... Go to
her.
Get... up.... nothing, except he stared ahead at his daughter,
stared at
the tears and the tidy hands. The room was quiet again, quiet
with sobs.
Then the soft click, and a cough.
"What have you done with my daddy!" she shouted,
staring over his shoulder,
anger, not fear. The stranger walked around the edge of the room,
a neatly
dressed man, a businessman in suit and tie with a businessman's
cut to his
black-grey hair and a briefcase carried in a businesslike way.
He stopped, looked at the girl.
"Remember," he said, still looking at the girl,
"that you brought this on
her."
He walked towards the girl, placed the briefcase on the floor
behind her
and knelt to one side. He reached behind the chair, opened the
case and
brought out a small, silver thing, small and silver like a
scalpel, which
thing it was not, not quite.
The room was quiet for a moment and then was not, not for a very
long time.
The man got up, dropped the instrument, turned and left,
retracing his
steps, never looking towards the other chair and saying nothing
that would
break the new and lasting silence that settled in, finally, with
that soft
click.
The sitting man looked at the chair in front of him where his
daughter had
been, where perhaps the nightdress was blue and white and red
around the
strange new shapes. Perhaps the room was warm and white, and the
spittle
still cool on his chin, but where those thoughts might be, nobody
could
tell.
At last he could scream. He could scream, and felt his body
return as the
room faded, the warm light coalescing to a point, the familiar
lamp in the
ceiling of his office. He stopped screaming, and shut his eyes,
felt the
familiar rising within, lent over the edge of the couch and was
violently,
absolutely sick.
"Censor?"
He coughed, retched again, closed his mouth, blew and cleared the
vomit out
of his nostrils. He shook his head, gained control. The other man
in his
office mistook the shake for an answer.
"Censor, we took great care to follow the rules. I
understand, but you must
realise that there was no infringement..."
"No, no," the Censor said. "Please, a
moment..."
"I understand.", said the other man.
The Censor sat up, and took a drink from the glass of water that
waited on
his desk. A moment passed.
"It was within the rules," the Censor said, "and I
must pass it. With the
usual form of words at the beginning, and at the end, of
course."
"Thank you. I will have the finished product for your office
by noon
tomorrow."
The Censor nodded, and waved towards the door. The man bowed,
picked up his
businessman's briefcase and walked out. The door shut behind him
and his
black-grey hair, leaving the Censor still smelling vomit in his
nostrils.
He sat behind his desk, and called for the cleaner. Then he did
two more
things, by the rules, as always. He registered the Board's
approval for the
new Government virtuality, sending copies to the Ministry for
Population
Control and the broadcast net. Finally, he wrote his resignation,
copies to
the Board, Housing and his wife who waited, barren these ninety
years,
waiting for him to return and finally lie down beside her in
their
dormitory cot.
(c) rg
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