the cafe. Even the waiters had started
and pricked up their ears.
The trumpet-call had let loose an enormous volume of noise. Already an
excited voice was gabbling from the telescreen, but even as it started it
was almost drowned by a roar of cheering from outside. The news had run
round the streets like magic. 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 seaborne armada had secretly assembled a sudden blow in
the enemy's rear, the white arrow tearing across the tail of the black.
Fragments of triumphant phrases pushed themselves through the din: 'Vast
strategic manoeuvre -- perfect co-ordination -- utter rout -- half a
million prisoners -- complete demoralization -- control of the whole of
Africa -- bring the war within measurable distance of its end victory --
greatest victory in human history -- victory, victory, victory!'
Under the table Winston'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
the portrait of Big Brother. The colossus that bestrode the world! The rock
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 a Eurasian army that
had perished! Much had changed in him 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