The spasm passed. He put the white knight back in its place, but for the moment he could not settle down to serious study of the chess problem. His thoughts wandered again. Almost unconsciously he traced with his finger in the dust on the table:

I am a horrible person and deserve everything I get.

'They can't get inside you,' he had said. But they could get inside you. 'What happens to you here is for ever,' They had said. That was a true word. There were things, your own acts, from which you could never recover. Something was killed: burnt out, cauterized out. [...]

He could hear just enough of what was issuing from the telescreen to realize that it had all happened, as he had foreseen; a vast air-attack had secretly assembled a sudden blow in the enemy's rear, the white arrow tearing across the tail of the black. Close up shots of his former wingmen's bloodied corpses as they lay in the shattered cockpits. Fragments of triumphant phrases pushed themselves through the din: 'Vast strategic manoeuvre -- perfect co-ordination -- utter rout -- half a million prisoners -- complete demoralization -- liberation of the whole of Australatina -- bring the war within measurable distance of its end victory -- greatest victory in human history -- victory, victory, victory!'

Under the table Toy's feet made convulsive movements. He had not stirred from his seat, but in his mind he was running, swiftly running, he was with the crowds outside, cheering himself deaf. He looked up again at his enemies. The colossi that bestrode the world! The rocks against which the hordes of Asia dashed themselves in vain! He thought how ten minutes ago -- yes, only ten minutes -- there had still been equivocation in his heart as he wondered whether the news from the front would be of victory or defeat. Ah, it was more than Toy's army that had perished! Much had changed in him too since that first day in the Ministry of Love, but the final, indispensable, healing change had never happened, until this moment.

The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tale of prisoners and booty and slaughter, but the shouting outside had died down a little. The waiters were turning back to their work. One of them approached with the gin bottle. Toy, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no attention as his glass was filled up. He was not running or cheering any longer. He was back in the Ministry of Love, with everything forgiven, his soul white as snow. He was in the public dock, confessing everything. He was walking down the white-tiled corridor, with the feeling of walking in sunlight, and an armed guard at his back. The longhoped-for bullet was entering his brain.

He gazed up at the angry mob. Five years it had taken him to learn what kind of person he truly was. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two dirt-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. Toy called it quits.