of limb, torso, stance and personality) began to change. They became farmers, businessmen, politicians, and peasants in a flickering blaze of change.
He saw every evocation of each visible personality throughout every incarnation down all history, all space, all time.
Light, sound, vibration, solidity and surface flared up in a great tumultuous cry. And the electric circuit of his nerves fused beneath too great an awareness as perception multiplied beyond limit and the universe closed in against him in a total, inchoate mingling of interior and exterior. All tissues, membranes, surfaces, interfaces and barriers vanished in a single gestalt instant. And transfixed by the experience of reality, he came finally to the centre of existence.
His mouth opened in a frozen, silent scream.
There was a moment which he became everything, and then—
Godhood.
His consciousness fled from the moment unable to accept, trembled and withdrew. It blanked out pain, blanked out cause, blanked out event, withdrew cell by cell, nerve by nerve through his every day in the Village to the time before that, to the source of the pain.
He fell, unopposed, to the day it all began.
The music pounded out of the speaker and the singer’s voice set up an eerie summons, high and compelling. The shadows of overhead trees dappled and swirled off the car as it roared down the street and into the city rising before it.
His face was grim, set. Eyes, mouth, plane of the face, determined, stubborn and resolute. The singer’s image was conjured in his mind, behind the brightness of the London afternoon.
The car rolled down a ramp into an underground garage.
He got out and went up to giant double doors, seized the handles and threw them open.
He threw the resignation on Sir Charles’s desk.
Sir Charles looked up. His lips parted: The question was flung from the very depths of the universe itself:
WHY?
It smote his consciousness—all time, all structure, all reason ringing with the blow. Present and future mingled in his mind. Like the ghost of reality yet to be, he saw the Village more clearly than the face of the man before him.
And the memory of copper wire and jellied flesh was a shield within his hand.
‘No!’ he cried.
It was the ultimate affirmation.
The universe came to an end.
V euillez, Number Six, how did you resist?’
‘Number Four was too co-operative, feeding me in prison. It was out of character. I ate and caught flu. Why? Obviously so I wouldn’t be with you for the execution. Having found one illusion, I waited for the next. And after it, the next. There was never a time I believed completely in my environment.’
‘Merci. At least I know.’ He made a defenceless motion with his hands. ‘What will happen to me now, I cannot say.’
‘Perhaps you’ll be given your old job back.’
‘Yes, I rather like blending tobacco.’
‘Well, if that’s all—’
‘Oh yes. You may go, Number Six.’
‘Be seeing you, Number Two.’
He stepped out in the street and started home.
Number 237 was talking to a shopkeeper across the street. He turned and waved his hat. ‘Hello, Number Six.’
‘How was your fishing?’
‘Good. Good. You must come to dinner and see.’
‘I will.’
He went on across the green.
Number 32 came out of a store. Her skirt blew up about her legs.
Some days he would play chess with the Admiral.
And some days he would struggle merely to remain alive.
Today he had a window to repair.
And tomorrow…he would wait and see.
For he had defeated them, as he would always defeat them, learning more each time until he set himself free and left.
For one man alone, each victory against so great a machine must be sweet.
He lit a cigar and smiled.
Life was very good just then. Just then.
ALSO AVAILABLE
THE PRISONER
THE OFFICIAL COMPANION
TO THE CLASSIC TV SERIES
by Robert Fairclough
ISBN: 0-7434-5256-9
It’s been over 35 years since Patrick McGoohan’s thriller series The Prisoner, a
He saw every evocation of each visible personality throughout every incarnation down all history, all space, all time.
Light, sound, vibration, solidity and surface flared up in a great tumultuous cry. And the electric circuit of his nerves fused beneath too great an awareness as perception multiplied beyond limit and the universe closed in against him in a total, inchoate mingling of interior and exterior. All tissues, membranes, surfaces, interfaces and barriers vanished in a single gestalt instant. And transfixed by the experience of reality, he came finally to the centre of existence.
His mouth opened in a frozen, silent scream.
There was a moment which he became everything, and then—
Godhood.
His consciousness fled from the moment unable to accept, trembled and withdrew. It blanked out pain, blanked out cause, blanked out event, withdrew cell by cell, nerve by nerve through his every day in the Village to the time before that, to the source of the pain.
He fell, unopposed, to the day it all began.
The music pounded out of the speaker and the singer’s voice set up an eerie summons, high and compelling. The shadows of overhead trees dappled and swirled off the car as it roared down the street and into the city rising before it.
His face was grim, set. Eyes, mouth, plane of the face, determined, stubborn and resolute. The singer’s image was conjured in his mind, behind the brightness of the London afternoon.
The car rolled down a ramp into an underground garage.
He got out and went up to giant double doors, seized the handles and threw them open.
He threw the resignation on Sir Charles’s desk.
Sir Charles looked up. His lips parted: The question was flung from the very depths of the universe itself:
WHY?
It smote his consciousness—all time, all structure, all reason ringing with the blow. Present and future mingled in his mind. Like the ghost of reality yet to be, he saw the Village more clearly than the face of the man before him.
And the memory of copper wire and jellied flesh was a shield within his hand.
‘No!’ he cried.
It was the ultimate affirmation.
The universe came to an end.
V euillez, Number Six, how did you resist?’
‘Number Four was too co-operative, feeding me in prison. It was out of character. I ate and caught flu. Why? Obviously so I wouldn’t be with you for the execution. Having found one illusion, I waited for the next. And after it, the next. There was never a time I believed completely in my environment.’
‘Merci. At least I know.’ He made a defenceless motion with his hands. ‘What will happen to me now, I cannot say.’
‘Perhaps you’ll be given your old job back.’
‘Yes, I rather like blending tobacco.’
‘Well, if that’s all—’
‘Oh yes. You may go, Number Six.’
‘Be seeing you, Number Two.’
He stepped out in the street and started home.
Number 237 was talking to a shopkeeper across the street. He turned and waved his hat. ‘Hello, Number Six.’
‘How was your fishing?’
‘Good. Good. You must come to dinner and see.’
‘I will.’
He went on across the green.
Number 32 came out of a store. Her skirt blew up about her legs.
Some days he would play chess with the Admiral.
And some days he would struggle merely to remain alive.
Today he had a window to repair.
And tomorrow…he would wait and see.
For he had defeated them, as he would always defeat them, learning more each time until he set himself free and left.
For one man alone, each victory against so great a machine must be sweet.
He lit a cigar and smiled.
Life was very good just then. Just then.
ALSO AVAILABLE
THE PRISONER
THE OFFICIAL COMPANION
TO THE CLASSIC TV SERIES
by Robert Fairclough
ISBN: 0-7434-5256-9
It’s been over 35 years since Patrick McGoohan’s thriller series The Prisoner, a
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