The afternoon was more bearable. Immediately after lunch there arrived a delicate， difficult piece of work which would take several hours and necessitated putting everything else aside. It consisted in falsifying a series of production reports of two years ago， in such a way as to cast discredit on a prominent member of the Inner Party， who was now under a cloud. This was the kind of thing that Winston was good at， and for more than two hours he succeeded in shutting the girl out of his mind altogether. Then the memory of her face came back， and with it a raging， intolerable desire to be alone. Until he could be alone it was impossible to think this new development out. Tonight was one of his nights at the Community Centre. He wolfed another tasteless meal in the canteen， hurried off to the Centre， took part in the solemn foolery of a “discussion group”， played two games of table tennis， swallowed several glasses of gin， and sat for half an hour through a lecture entitled “Ingsoc in relation to chess”. His soul writhed with boredom， but for once he had had no impulse to shirk his evening at the Centre. At the sight of the words the desire to stay alive had welled up in him， and the taking of minor risks suddenly seemed stupid. It was not till twenty-three hours， when he was home and in bed — in the darkness， where you were safe even from the telescreen so long as you kept silent — that he was able to think continuously.
It was a physical problem that had to be solved： how to get in touch with the girl and arrange a meeting. He did not consider any longer the possibility that she might be laying some kind of trap for him. He knew that it was not so， because of her unmistakable agitation when she handed him the note. Obviously she had been frightened out of her wits， as well she might be. Nor did the idea of refusing her advances even cross his mind. Only five nights ago he had contemplated smashing her skull in with a cobblestone， but that was of no importance. He thought of her naked， youthful body， as he had seen it in his dream. He had imagined her a fool like all the rest of them， her head stuffed with lies and hatred， her belly full of ice. A kind of fever seized him at the thought that he might lose her， the white youthful body might slip away from him！ What he feared more than anything else was that she would simply change her mind if he did not get in touch with her quickly. But the physical difficulty of meeting was enormous. It was like trying to make a move at chess when you were already mated. Whichever way you turned， the telescreen faced you. Actually， all the possible ways of communicating with her had occurred to him within five minutes of reading the note； but now， with time to think， he went over them one by one， as though laying out a row of instruments on a table.
Obviously the kind of encounter that had happened this morning could not be repeated. If she had worked in the Records Department it might have been comparatively simple， but he had only a very dim idea whereabouts in the building the Fiction Departrnent lay， and he had no pretext for going there. If he had known where she lived， and at what time she left work， he could have contrived to meet her somewhere on her way home； but to try to follow her home was not safe， because it would mean loitering about outside the Ministry， which was bound to be noticed. As for sending a letter through the mails， it was out of the question. By a routine that was not even secret， all letters were opened in transit. Actually， few people ever wrote letters. For the messages that it was occasionally necessary to send， there were printed postcards with long lists of phrases， and you struck out the ones that were inapplicable. In any case he did not know the girl’s name， let alone her address. Finally he decided that the safest place was the canteen. If he could get her at a table by herself， somewhere in the middle of the room， not too near the telescreens， and with a sufficient buzz of conversation all round — if these conditions endured for， say， thirty seconds， it might be possible to exchange a few words.
For a week after this， life was like a restless dream. On the next day she did not appear in the canteen until he was leaving it， the whistle having already blown. Presumably she had been changed on to a later shift. They passed each other without a glance. On the day after that she was in the canteen at the usual time， but with three other girls and immediately under a telescreen. Then for three dreadful days she did not appear at all. His whole mind and body seemed to be afflicted with an unbearable sensitivity， a sort of transparency， which made every movement， every sound， every contact， every word that he had to speak or listen to， an agony. Even in sleep he could not altogether escape from her image. He did not touch the diary during those days. If there was any relief， it was in his work， in which he could sometimes forget himself for ten minutes at a stretch. He had absolutely no clue as to what had happened to her. There was no enquiry he could make. She might have been vaporized， she might have committed suicide， she might have been transferred to the other end of Oceania： worst and likeliest of all， she might simply have changed her mind and decided to avoid him.