Psychological and physical factors were all to my advantage. Although he was ignorant of the actual mechanism of syncope he would know that I was psychologically conditioned to it, because this was a crisis: I was helpless in a situation of rapidly increasing strain, and however much the ego and superego tried to rationalise and seek comfort or simply acceptance, the id knew I was in bad trouble and was ready to throw the switch and relieve the strain by blacking me out.
There was also a psychological lever working in Oktober himself: fainting is considered a sign of weakness, though wrongly (the guards trooping the Colours are far from weak specimens, however often they fall over. Long and motionless standing is a classic physical cause of syncope), and I was Oktober's enemy. In a given case we always tend to believe what pleases us, even when evidence to the contrary is stronger. In this case there were two kinds of evidence presented to him. One: the blackout was shown to be produced falsely, at a time when I was obviously desperate for a way out. Two: it was shown to be produced because I was weak. The former evidence was the stronger, because intelligence agents don't pass out so easily in a crisis: crisis is their raison d'etre and it is what they live and sometimes die for; otherwise they'd take up dairy-farming. But Oktober would accept the evidence that pleased him personally: that the blackout was caused by weakness in his enemy.
The physical factors were to my advantage because they too helped to give credence to the genuineness of the faint. The room was very stuffy due to airlessness and the rise of temperature. The central heating was on, and during the last fifteen minutes the temperature had been boosted by the presence of four extra people, each of whose bodies was running at 98.4 degrees F. and throwing off excess heat. My face was bright with sweat and my breathing heavy: two symptoms precursive to a faint.
I was thus psychologically and physically conditioned for the occurrence, and Oktober was furthermore ready to believe the evidence of weakness in an enemy. It was vital that the blackout should look genuine in its inception. It was certainly genuine in its performance.
The same factors that presented evidence of truth were to my advantage in another way: they helped me to induce unconsciousness. Lack of oxygen, mental strain, so forth. To induce syncope at will in a normal environment is not so easy. The instinctive fear of achieving the desired result – unconsciousness – works against the determination to do it. An advanced student of Yoga can induce a form of syncope by one of several asanas, mostly simply by Savasana; but the resulting unconsciousness is salutary, and both body and mind realise it: there is no distortion of any function. I knew that in this crisis a blackout would be salutary indirectly (it would save another's pain), but the body is selfish and will look after only its own direct needs. It was therefore necessary to simulate functional disbalance.
I wasn't worried that my enemy was watching me. The trappings of the trick would look genuine, simply because they were genuine. I filled my lungs, blocked the throat and tried to force air out against the block. The face would gradually suffuse as the blood was driven to the surface. Then I emptied the lungs totally, showing gradual and comparative pallor. The intrathoracic pressure was rising fast and reaching well beyond the 100mm Hg produced by a normal cough, and the pressure was being transmitted to the internal jugular vein and cerebrospinal fluid. In the final seconds of consciousness I tracked the process mentally, to encourage the will. Peripheral filling was now setting up and I could feel the increase of the forearm volume. Cardiac input and output was being reduced, and I held breathing as long as possible to keep the process going.
Then I went slack and inhaled, to bring down the blood pressure with a bang.
The ears sang and the vision lost focus, and the room was darkening as I saw Oktober's hand come out to grab me as I collapsed. The whole operation had taken some five or six seconds and I would be blacked-out for perhaps ten or fifteen and even more if he kept me upright instead of putting my head below heart level.
The blackout was total for a few seconds, then lifted and returned in decreasing waves as the body tried to surface and the mind forced it down again. Various impressions dark and light, constriction beneath the arms as my jacket was drawn upwards by his suspension (he had grabbed it at the front) singing in the ears, muted voice of a man, urgent desire for air, so forth. And all the time the thought: it's this or nothing, it's got to work. The mind had been pre-set to work against the body's recovery, reversing the norm.
Voices again. Inga called something. Water running somewhere. A flash of light as Oktober brought the back of his hand across my face. I was moaning. The shock of the water as they flung it against my eyes. Full consciousness came back and I had to feign continuance of the syncope, letting my dead weight hang on their hands as they tried to wake me, letting my lids droop and the eyes turn upwards. My heart was pumping to restore the lost pressure.
They tried a trick and let me fall and I didn't try to save myself but dropped in a heap and got to my knees and hung on all fours shaking my head to clear it, opening my eyes and saying softly and monotonously "Carry on treatment… burn her alive… you won't get a word, not one word… not one word…"
Someone closed a door and nobody spoke. I swung my head and tried to focus, blanking the eyes of full intelligence: a man's legs still against the entrance door, Oktober gone, where had he gone? A man behind me, could see his shoe. "Not one word," I said to his shoe. The remains of the water dripped from my face.
Nobody did anything. No one spoke. I got upright and stood swaying, trying to find my pocket, missing, trying again and getting out my handkerchief, wiping my face – the guard by the door had pulled his gun as fast as a snake's tongue and was ready with it, but he knew I wasn't armed; it was his instinct.
A door opened and I heard her sobbing. A shadow loomed on the wall and I saw the arm lifting. It was a low-powered rabbit-chop and I dropped like a sandbag, out before I hit the floor.
The time-sense was groggy but I couldn't have been out for long. The pile of the carpet formed an expanse of high terrain in front of my eyes because the side of my face was lying on it. There were no shoes anywhere. Everything was quiet except for her sobbing. I got on to hands and knees and stood up when I could. The room swung and I put out a hand to stop it. The big Chinese-moon lamp went on and off to my pulse.
When I could turn round I saw there was no one here. The ache of the rabbit-chop throbbed but I reached the bedroom still on my feet. She was crouched naked on the end of the bed and there was blood on her legs so I went back and used the phone, dialling from the list she kept. He said he would come.
In the bedroom I put out the main lamps and knelt and took her face between my hands, and began worrying, nothing to do with her but to do with them, because they shouldn't have gone. Then I knew why they had gone. I said:
"There's a doctor on his way."
She nodded between my hands. She wouldn't let me touch her. She crouched with her legs tight together, rocking slowly.