Paul Theroux - O-Zone

Then the lights went on: the burglar looked up and saw that he had been surprised by the home-owner, who was smiling and holding a gun on him. He threw the burglar a pair of handcuffs and ordered him to put them on, and then brought him into the cellar of this luxurious house. The burglar had a tough, vicious face which, in close-up, had the fixed expression and mute darting eyes of an animal. But then the face reacted, fear slid across it, and the camera drew back to show that the interrupted burglar had been brought to a torture chamber— whips, straps, chains, prods, a bondage chair, and more. "That's enough," Hooper said, and turned away. "It just started!"

"I'm not interested in pornography."

"He doesn't kill him. He just tortures him."

"That's what I mean."

"The burglar asked for it! He was robbing the guy's house." Meesle looked hurt. "Afterward, the guy goes to the burglar's house and burns it down. This isn't porno. This is about justice."

"Forget it."

"Hold it," Meesle said. "I've got another one."

This one, called Alienation, could not have been simpler, and yet Hooper's bafflement kept him from protesting.

A young man appeared on the screen. His handsome face and strong upper body were shown — he was barechested. Behind his head the sun was breaking through a cloud. The young man was not smiling, but neither did he look solemn. He was serious and self-possessed. He said, "I am an American," and stared.

"I am an American," said the next person, a woman— head and shoulders, her fresh face shining. She had white even teeth, full lips, soft hair, and if it were not for her eyes she might have been taken for the sister of the young man just shown — there was certainly a family resemblance. But this woman's eyes were the hard gray-blue of knife metal and had the same warning glint.

An older man, just as healthy and dignified, followed the woman. His hair was pure white, and his face lined, but his voice was steady, with a hint of defiance in it.

"I am an American."

Hooper wanted to laugh, it was so naive. And Meesle perhaps sensed his restlessness, because he said, "Wait, you're going to love this."

Another face appeared. It was an abrupt shift, the face bumping into view. This man was swarthy and had rumpled hair — a piece of string in the hair — and a torn shirt. When he opened his lips to speak there was a great square gap, and his whitened tongue twitching in this toothless hole.

"I ain Nerican," he said, moving his furtive eyes sideways, like a thief.

"I in Mokin," the next one said. His face was black and swollen, pustules on his forehead, his hair a mop of little medallions of filth. He was almost certainly a city Skell.

"I aim Mocking!" an old woman shrieked. She had a ruined face and was balding. White scars showed like chalkmarks on her scalp.

"Arm Marrycan," muttered a grizzled man with wild eyes. He had the dirty outdoor look of a Troll, and greasy cheeks, and plugs of snot in his nostrils.

Hooper was startled by the ugly faces, and there was something objectionable — harsh and mocking — in their voices, each creature saying in broken English that he was an American.

"Argh Maakin!" This man's pulpy nose was split open, and his eyes were bloodshot.

"Me!" cried another sweaty head. "Me Marican!"

"Meiguoren!" a Chinese man howled, showing tooth stumps, and then his head was displaced by another howler, a gleaming monkey-face with slobbery lips and pendulous ear-lobes. "Mollikan!"

The faces were hideous, animal, lunatic, foreign — alien. They grunted. They were scarcely human, and they were not speaking English; but that did not matter, because Hooper knew they were illegals and that in their shouts and barks they were claiming to be Americans. There were more. Hooper was fascinated by their ugliness. They had wild eyes and broken teeth. They were furious. They looked extremely dangerous.

The faces became fiercer. They were stupid with rage— defiant and demented. One mouth had long canines, the dogteeth of a baboon. And then they became wholly unintelligible and simply gibbered — but Hooper knew they were saying, "I am an American."

There were gunshots, and these loud blasts made the faces disappear. There was no blood. This happened twenty times, beginning with the last faces: the gibbering ones — bang! Dog-teeth — bang? "Mollikan" — bang!

And, in spite of himself, Hooper felt lighter and breathed better as each figure was blasted away. He relaxed, settling into his chair, waiting for all this to end. He was relieved that it was not porn, not torture, not murder, really; he was not sure what it was. It seemed to him a kind of comedy — the grotesque faces, the absurd ways of saying "I am an American," and the bangs were no worse than custard pies.

In the last sequences, the three healthy people from the beginning reappeared — first their faces, and then "I am an American," and finally a wide shot showing that they were wearing uniforms with the Godseye insignia and carrying blunt black weapons. That was the end.

"Didn't I tell you it was kind of cute?" Meesle seemed pleased in a wistful way. "How about another one?"

Hooper said no, but softly and suppressing a half-smile, because in a small way that video Alienation had worked on him. He had found those faces horrible. Insisting they were Americans! What made him somewhat objective was that all the faces annoyed him, even the three Godseye troopers that he was supposed to admire.

And he also said no because it was like pornography — he was disgusted and aroused at the same time. He could not honestly say that he hated the video. But he hated himself for feeling ashamed and fascinated.

He guessed that Meesle saw him weakening. The peak of Meesle's helmet was wagging at him.

Meesle said, "I know you want to watch another one. You're just not sure whether it's good for you."

Hooper did not want to incriminate himself by denying a thing he saw some truth in.

"You like it," Meesle said, leering at Hooper through his mask. "Or else you wouldn't be here."

Exaggeration was better — that was easier to deny. But Hooper had forgotten why he had come — something to do with the other tape, the particle beam, his surprise when the skinny-faced little man in the shiny helmet and new boots had become very nervous and confidential and said, "I'm in Godseye." Murdick, of all people!

"Just curious," Hooper said, and thought: No wonder I'm disgusted.

Meesle was still good-natured, still trying to entertain him.

"Some of you first-time guys are great," he said. "Sluter thinks you're all security risks and you're all going to give us clams. But I'm for opening up more and getting fresh blood. A lot of what we do is just routine. Even the Snake-Eaters sometimes forget about the real objectives. We need new people." He peered at Hooper from the gleaming faceplate. "Really angry people."

Yet Hooper was surprised by Meesle's cheery tone. It had always been Hooper's impression that men in squads like Godseye were very angry. In other respects they were totally anonymous and secretive. Upside-down, over forbidden O-Zone, the terrified Murdick had revealed his secret.

"We had a guy on board a couple of months ago. He was a first-timer."

Meesle smiled and savored the moment. He was full of the story he was about to tell.

"Sluter wanted to kick him off the ship. 'He's a clam. He's a dick.' That kind of thing. But I insisted we give him a chance. He didn't say a word the whole time. He was an older man — mid-sixties or so."

Spreading his fingers on the ground-screen, Meesle said, "Pretty soon we had a Skell cornered down at the Battery. He'd run behind a building and had sort of squeezed himself into a doorway. Some of those monkeys can get into cracks. We couldn't use gas on him because of the location. I was for popping his eardrums — blasting his head open with some noise. Hum some stunners at him. But before I could load them, this old guy — who we've never seen before, meek as a lamb — he says, 'Put me on the ground.'