“The theory is that communication with our fellow-patients would hinder our recovery,” he replied, with a significant smile.
“But what are you supposed to be suffering from?” I said.
“A mental disease known only to the Government of Meccania,” he answered. “You must have heard of it. Mr. Kwang knows all about it. The real name for it is ‘heresy,’ but they call it Znednettlapseiwz. I suffer very badly from it and am incurable—at least I hope so,” he added bitterly.
At this point Kwang announced that he wished to visit another patient, and that he would leave us together so that I might have a long talk undisturbed. It was evident that he occupied a privileged position, or he would never have been able to have such access to these patients. When he had left the room I did my best to get Mr. Stillman to talk, but I hardly knew how to induce him to tell me his story. I said, “I suppose you are not treated badly, apart from this prohibition about conversing with your fellow-sufferers?”
“We are fed with the exact amount of food we require,” he replied; “we are clothed—and thank God we do not wear any of the seven uniforms; and we are decently warm, except sometimes in winter when, I suppose, something goes wrong with the apparatus.”
“What?” I said. “Can any apparatus go wrong in Meccania?”
“Well,” he said, “perhaps the fact is that I want to be warmer than the experts think is necessary. Yes; that is probably the explanation.”
“And for the rest,” I said. “Have you no occupation? How do you spend the time?”
“In trying to preserve the last remains of my sanity,” he answered.
“And by what means?” I asked gently.