Chapter 32 SIXTEEN - THE SILVER GUILLOTINE-2

Possibly the Tartar officer in charge of the guard could help your investigation? I merely mention that as a possibility. Where were the Tartars during the fire drill, by the way? I suppose you have considered that?" “Yes, we have,” said the man wearily. “The guard was fully occupied on patrol, every man. They keep meticulous records.” “Im sure you are doing your very best,” she said. “Well, there we are. A great pity. But enough of that for now. Tell me about the new separator.” Lyra felt a thrill of fear. There was only one thing this could mean. “Ah,” said the doctor, relieved to find the conversation turning to another subject, “there’s a real advance. With the first model we could never entirely overcome the risk of ? the patient dying of shock, but we have improved that no end. "

“The Skraelings did it better by hand,” said a man who hadn’t spoken yet. “Centuries of practice,” said the other man. “But simply tearing was the only option for some time,” said the main speaker, “however stressing that was to the adult operators. If you remember, we had to discharge quite a number for reasons of stress-related anxiety. But the first big breakthrough was the use of anesthesia combined with the Maystadt anbaric scalpel. We were able to reduce death from operative shock to below five percent.” “And the new instrument?” said Mrs. Coulter. Lyra was trembling. The blood was pounding in her ears, and Pantalaimon was pressing his ermine form against her side, and whispering, “Hush, Lyra, they wont do it—we wont let them do it—”

“Yes, it was a curious discovery by Lord Asriel himself that gave us the key to the new method. He discovered that an alloy of manganese and titanium has the property of insulating body from daemon. By the way, what is happening with Lord Asriel ?” “Perhaps you havent heard,” said Mrs. Coulter. “Lord Asriel is under suspended sentence of death. One of the conditions of his exile in Svalbard was that he give up his philosophical work entirely. Unfortunately, he managed to obtain books and materials , and he pushed his heretical investigations to the point where its positively dangerous to let him live. At any rate, it seems that the Vatican Council has begun to debate the question of the sentence of death, and the probability is that itll be carried out 。 But your new instrument, Doctor.

How does it work?" "Ah—yes—sentence of death, you say? Gracious God...Im sorry. The new instrument. Were investigating what happens when the intercision is made with the patient in a conscious state, and of course that couldn't be done with the Maystadt process. So we've developed a kind of guillotine, I suppose you could say. The blade is made of manganese and titanium alloy, and the child is placed in a compartment—like a small cabin— of alloy mesh, with the daemon in a similar compartment connecting with it. While there is a connection, of course, the link remains. Then the blade is brought down between them, severing the link at once.

They are then separate entities.” "I should like to see it," she said. "Soon, I hope. But Im tired now. I think Ill go to bed. I want to see all the children tomorrow. We shall find out who opened that door." There was the sound of chairs being pushed back, polite expressions, a door closing. Then Lyra heard the others sit down again, and go on talking, but more quietly. “What is Lord Asriel up to?” “I think hes got an entirely different idea of ​​the nature of Dust. Thats the point. Its profoundly heretical, you see, and the Consistorial Court of Discipline cant allow any other interpretation than the authorized one. And besides, he wants to experiment— "

"To experiment? With Dust?" "Hush! Not so loud..." “Do you think shell make an unfavorable report?” "No, no. I think you dealt with her very well." "Her attitude worries me...." “Not philosophical, you mean?” “Exactly. A personal interest. I dont like to use the word, but its almost ghoulish.” "That's a bit strong." “But do you remember the first experiments, when she was so keen to see thefn pulled apart—” Lyra, coutdnt help it: a little cry escaped her, and at the same time she tensed and shivered, and her foot knocked against a stanchion.

"What was that?" "In the ceiling—" "Quick!" The sound of chairs being thrown aside, feet running, a table pulled across the floor. Lyra tried to scramble away, but there was so little space, and before she could move more than a few yards the ceiling panel beside her was thrust up suddenly , and she was looking into the startled face of a man. She was close enough to see every hair in his mustache. He was as startled as she was, but with more freedom to move, he was able to thrust a hand into the gap and seize her arm. "A child!" "Don't let her go—"

Lyra sank her teeth into his large freckled hand. He cried out, but didnt let go, even when she drew blood. Pan-talaimon was snarling and spitting, but it was no good, the man was much stronger than she was, and he pulled and pulled until her other hand, desperately clinging to the stanchion, had to loosen, and she half-fell through into the room. Still she didnt utter a sound. She hooked her legs over the sharp edge of the metal above, and struggled upside down, scratching, biting, punching, spitting in passionate fury. The men were gasping and grunting with pain or exertion, but they pulled and pulled.

And suddenly all the strength went out of her. It was as if an alien hand had reached right inside where no hand had a right to be, and wrenched at something deep and precious. She felt faint, dizzy, sick, disgusted, limp with shock. One of the men was holding Pantalaimon. He had seized Lyras daemon in his human hands, and poor Pan was shaking, nearly out of his mind with horror and disgust. His wildcat shape, his fur now dull with weakness, now sparking glints of anbaric alarm...He curved toward his Lyra as she reached with both hands for him.... They fell still. They were captured.

She felt those hands....It wasn't allowed....Not supposed to touch...Wrong.... "Was she on her own?" A man was peering into the ceiling space. "Seems to be on her own...." "Who is she?" "The new child." "The one the Samoyed hunters..." "Yes." "You don't suppose she...the daemons..." "Could well be. But not on her own, surely?" "Should we tell—" "I think that would put the seal on things, don't you?" "I agree. Better she doesn't hear at all." "But what can we do about this?"

"She can't go back with the other children." "Impossible!" “Theres only one thing we can do, it seems to me.” "Now?" “Have to. Cant leave it till the morning. She wants to watch.” “We could do it ourselves. No need to involve anyone else.” The man who seemed to be in charge, the man who wasn't holding either Lyra or Pantalaimon, tapped his teeth with a thumbnail. His eyes were never still; they flicked and slid and darted this way and that. "Now. Do it now," he said. "Otherwise shell talk. The shock will prevent that, at least. She won't remember who she is, what she saw, what she heard....Come on." Lyra couldn't speak. She could hardly breathe. She had to let herself be carried through the station, along white empty corridors, past rooms humming with anbaric power, past the dormitories where children slept with their dasmons on the pillow beside them, sharing their dreams ; and every second of the way she watched Pantalaimon, and he reached for her, and their eyes never left each other. Then a door which opened by means of a large wheel; a hiss of air; and a brilliantly lit chamber with dazzling white tiles and stainless steel. The fear she felt was almost a physical pain; and Pantalaimon over toward a large cage of pale silver mesh, above which a great pale silver blade hung poised to separate them forever and ever. She found a voice at last, and screamed. The sound echoed loudly off the shiny surfaces, but the heavy door had hissed shut; she could scream and scream forever, and not a sound would escape. But Pantalaimon, in answer, had twisted free of those hateful hands—he was a lion, an eagle; he tore at them with vicious talons, great wings beat wildly, and then he was a wolf, a bear, a polecat—darting, snarling, slashing, a succession of transformations too quick to register, and all the time leaping, flying, dodging from one spot to another as their clumsy hands flailed and snatched at the empty air. But they had daemons too, of course. It wasn't two against three, it was two against six. A badger, an owl, and a baboon were all just as intent to pin Pantalaimon down, and Lyra was crying to them: “Why? Why are you doing this? Help us! You shouldn't be helping them!" And she kicked and bit more passionately than ever, until the man holding her gasped and let go for a moment—and she was free, and Pantalaimon sprang toward her like a spark of lightning, and she clutched him to her fierce breast, and he dug his wildcat claws into her flesh, and every stab of pain was dear to her. "Never! Never! Never!" she cried, and backed against the wall to defend him to their death. But they fell on her again, three big brutal men, and she was only a child, shocked and terrified; and they tore Pantalaimon away, and threw her into one side of the cage of mesh and carried him, struggling still, around to the other. There was a mesh barrier between them, but he was still part of her, they were still joined. For a second or so more, he was still her own dear soul. Above the panting of the men, above her own sobs, above the high wild howl of her daemon, Lyra heard a humming sound, and saw one man (bleeding from the nose) operate a bank of switches. The other two looked up, and her eyes followed theirs. The great pale silver blade was rising slowly, catching the brilliant light. The last moment in her complete life was going to be the worst by far. "What is going on here?" A light, musical voice: her voice. Everything stopped. "What are you doing? And who is this child—" She didn't complete the word child, because in that instant she recognized Lyra. Through tear-blurred eyes Lyra saw her totter and clutch at a bench; her face, so beautiful and composed, grew in a moment haggard and horror-struck. "Lyra—" she whispered. The golden monkey darted from her side in a flash, and tugged Pantalaimon out from the mesh cage as Lyra fell out herself. Pantalaimon pulled free of the monkeys solicitous paws and stumbled to Lyras arms. “Never, never,” she breathed into his fur, and he pressed his beating heart to hers. They clung together like survivors of a shipwreck, shivering on a desolate coast. Dimly she heard Mrs. Coulter speaking to the men, but she couldn't even interpret her tone of voice. And then they were leaving that hateful room, and Mrs. Coulter was half-carrying, half-supporting her along a corridor, and then there was a door, a bedroom, scent in the air, soft light. Mrs. Coulter laid her gently on the bed. Lyras arm was so tight around Pantalaimon that she was trembling with the force of it. A tender hand stroked her head. “My dear, dear child,” said that sweet voice. “However did you come to be here?”