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These are the OCR results for the 1932 published version of the book Brave New World written by Aldous Huxley. The OCR results have been produced with tesseract.
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Over the main en- </p><p>trance the words, CENTRAL LONDON HATCHERY AND CONDITIONING </p><p>CENTRE, and, in a shield, the World State's motto, COMMUNITY, IDEN- </p><p>TITY, STABILITY. </p><p>The enormous room on the ground floor faced towards the north. Cold </p><p>for all the summer beyond the panes, for all the tropical heat of the </p><p>room itself, a harsh thin light glared through the windows, hungrily </p><p>seeking some draped lay figure, some pallid shape of academic goose- </p><p>flesh, but finding only the glass and nickel and bleakly shining porce- </p><p>lain of a laboratory. Wintriness responded to wintriness. The overalls of </p><p>the workers were white, their hands gloved with a pale corpse- </p><p>coloured rubber. The light was frozen, dead, a ghost. Only from the </p><p>yellow barrels of the microscopes did it borrow a certain rich and living </p><p>substance, lying along the polished tubes like butter, streak after </p><p>luscious streak in long recession down the work tables. </p><p>"And this," said the Director opening the door, "is the Fertilizing </p><p>Room." </p><p>Bent over their instruments, three hundred Fertilizers were plunged, as </p><p>the Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning entered the room, in the </p><p>scarcely breathing silence, the absent-minded, soliloquizing hum or </p><p>whistle, of absorbed concentration. A troop of newly arrived students, </p><p>very young, pink and callow, followed nervously, rather abjectly, at the </p><p>Director's heels. Each of them carried a notebook, in which, whenever </p><p>the great man spoke, he desperately scribbled. Straight from the </p><p>horse's mouth. It was a rare privilege. The D. H. C. for Central London </p><p>always made a point of personally conducting his new students round </p><p>the various departments. </p><p>"Just to give you a general idea," he would explain to them. For of </p><p>course some sort of general idea they must have, if they were to do </p><p>their work intelligently-though as little of one, if they were to be good </p><p>and happy members of society, as possible. For particulars, as every </p><p>one knows, make for virtue and happiness; generalities are intellectu- </p><p>ally necessary evils. Not philosophers but fret-sawyers and stamp col-</p><p>lectors compose the backbone of society. </p><p>"To-morrow," he would add, smiling at them with a slightly menacing </p><p>geniality, "you'll be settling down to serious work. You won't have time </p><p>for generalities. Meanwhile ..." </p><p>Meanwhile, it was a privilege. Straight from the horse's mouth into the </p><p>notebook. The boys scribbled like mad. </p><p>Tall and rather thin but upright, the Director advanced into the room. </p><p>Fie had a long chin and big rather prominent teeth, just covered, when </p><p>he was not talking, by his full, floridly curved lips. Old, young? Thirty? </p><p>Fifty? Fifty-five? It was hard to say. And anyhow the question didn't </p><p>arise; in this year of stability, A. F. 632, it didn't occur to you to ask it. </p><p>"I shall begin at the beginning," said the D.FI.C. and the more zealous </p><p>students recorded his intention in their notebooks: Begin at the begin- </p><p>ning. "These," he waved his hand, "are the incubators." And opening </p><p>an insulated door he showed them racks upon racks of numbered test- </p><p>tubes. "The week's supply of ova. Kept," he explained, "at blood heat; </p><p>whereas the male gametes," and here he opened another door, "they </p><p>have to be kept at thirty-five instead of thirty-seven. Full blood heat </p><p>sterilizes." Rams wrapped in theremogene beget no lambs. </p><p>Still leaning against the incubators he gave them, while the pencils </p><p>scurried illegibly across the pages, a brief description of the modern </p><p>fertilizing process; spoke first, of course, of its surgical introduc- </p><p>tion-"the operation undergone voluntarily for the good of Society, not </p><p>to mention the fact that it carries a bonus amounting to six months' </p><p>salary"; continued with some account of the technique for preserving </p><p>the excised ovary alive and actively developing; passed on to a consid- </p><p>eration of optimum temperature, salinity, viscosity; referred to the liq- </p><p>uor in which the detached and ripened eggs were kept; and, leading </p><p>his charges to the work tables, actually showed them how this liquor </p><p>was drawn off from the test-tubes; how it was let out drop by drop </p><p>onto the specially warmed slides of the microscopes; how the eggs </p><p>which it contained were inspected for abnormalities, counted and </p><p>transferred to a porous receptacle; how (and he now took them to </p><p>watch the operation) this receptacle was immersed in a warm bouillon </p><p>containing free-swimming spermatozoa-at a minimum concentration </p><p>of one hundred thousand per cubic centimetre, he insisted; and how, </p><p>after ten minutes, the container was lifted out of the liquor and its </p><p>contents re-examined; how, if any of the eggs remained unfertilized, it </p><p>was again immersed, and, if necessary, yet again; how the fertilized </p><p>ova went back to the incubators; where the Alphas and Betas re- </p><p>mained until definitely bottled; while the Gammas, Deltas and Epsilons </p><p>were brought out again, after only thirty-six hours, to undergo Bo- </p><p>kanovsky's Process. </p><p>"Bokanovsky's Process," repeated the Director, and the students un- </p><p>derlined the words in their little notebooks. </p><p>One egg, one embryo, one adult-normality. But a bokanovskified egg </p><p>will bud, will proliferate, will divide. From eight to ninety-six buds, and </p><p>every bud will grow into a perfectly formed embryo, and every embryo</p><p>into a full-sized adult. Making ninety-six human beings grow where </p><p>only one grew before. Progress. </p><p>"Essentially," the D.H.C. concluded, "bokanovskification consists of a </p><p>series of arrests of development. We check the normal growth and, </p><p>paradoxically enough, the egg responds by budding." </p><p>Responds by budding. The pencils were busy. </p><p>He pointed. On a very slowly moving band a rack-full of test-tubes was </p><p>entering a large metal box, another, rack-full was emerging. Machinery </p><p>faintly purred. It took eight minutes for the tubes to go through, he </p><p>told them. Eight minutes of hard X-rays being about as much as an </p><p>egg can stand. A few died; of the rest, the least susceptible divided </p><p>into two; most put out four buds; some eight; all were returned to the </p><p>incubators, where the buds began to develop; then, after two days, </p><p>were suddenly chilled, chilled and checked. Two, four, eight, the buds </p><p>in their turn budded; and having budded were dosed almost to death </p><p>with alcohol; consequently burgeoned again and having budded-bud </p><p>out of bud out of bud-were thereafter-further arrest being generally </p><p>fatal-left to develop in peace. By which time the original egg was in a </p><p>fair way to becoming anything from eight to ninety-six embryos- a </p><p>prodigious improvement, you will agree, on nature. Identical twins-but </p><p>not in piddling twos and threes as in the old viviparous days, when an </p><p>egg would sometimes accidentally divide; actually by dozens, by </p><p>scores at a time. </p><p>"Scores," the Director repeated and flung out his arms, as though he </p><p>were distributing largesse. "Scores." </p><p>But one of the students was fool enough to ask where the advantage </p><p>lay. </p><p>"My good boy!" The Director wheeled sharply round on him. "Can't you </p><p>see? Can't you see?" He raised a hand; his expression was solemn. </p><p>"Bokanovsky's Process is one of the major instruments of social stabil- </p><p>ity!" </p><p>Major instruments of social stability. </p><p>Standard men and women; in uniform batches. The whole of a small </p><p>factory staffed with the products of a single bokanovskified egg. </p><p>"Ninety-six identical twins working ninety-six identical machines!" The </p><p>voice was almost tremulous with enthusiasm. "You really know where </p><p>you are. For the first time in history." He quoted the planetary motto. </p><p>"Community, Identity, Stability." Grand words. "If we could bo- </p><p>kanovskify indefinitely the whole problem would be solved." </p><p>Solved by standard Gammas, unvarying Deltas, uniform Epsilons. Mil- </p><p>lions of identical twins. The principle of mass production at last applied </p><p>to biology. </p><p>"But, alas," the Director shook his head, "we can't bokanovskify indefi-</p><p>nitely." </p><p>Ninety-six seemed to be the limit; seventy-two a good average. From </p><p>the same ovary and with gametes of the same male to manufacture as </p><p>many batches of identical twins as possible-that was the best (sadly a </p><p>second best) that they could do. And even that was difficult. </p><p>"For in nature it takes thirty years for two hundred eggs to reach ma- </p><p>turity. But our business is to stabilize the population at this moment, </p><p>here and now. Dribbling out twins over a quarter of a century-what </p><p>would be the use of that?" </p><p>Obviously, no use at all. But Podsnap's Technique had immensely ac- </p><p>celerated the process of ripening. They could make sure of at least a </p><p>hundred and fifty mature eggs within two years. Fertilize and bo- </p><p>kanovskify-in other words, multiply by seventy-two-and you get an </p><p>average of nearly eleven thousand brothers and sisters in a hundred </p><p>and fifty batches of identical twins, all within two years of the same </p><p>age. </p><p>"And in exceptional cases we can make one ovary yield us over fifteen </p><p>thousand adult individuals." </p><p>Beckoning to a fair-haired, ruddy young man who happened to be </p><p>passing at the moment. "Mr. Foster," he called. The ruddy young man </p><p>approached. "Can you tell us the record for a single ovary, Mr. Foster?" </p><p>"Sixteen thousand and twelve in this Centre," Mr. Foster replied with- </p><p>out hesitation. He spoke very quickly, had a vivacious blue eye, and </p><p>took an evident pleasure in quoting figures. "Sixteen thousand and </p><p>twelve; in one hundred and eighty-nine batches of identicals. But of </p><p>course they've done much better," he rattled on, "in some of the tropi- </p><p>cal Centres. Singapore has often produced over sixteen thousand five </p><p>hundred; and Mombasa has actually touched the seventeen thousand </p><p>mark. But then they have unfair advantages. You should see the way a </p><p>negro ovary responds to pituitary! It's quite astonishing, when you're </p><p>used to working with European material. Still," he added, with a laugh </p><p>(but the light of combat was in his eyes and the lift of his chin was </p><p>challenging), "still, we mean to beat them if we can. I'm working on a </p><p>wonderful Delta-Minus ovary at this moment. Only just eighteen </p><p>months old. Over twelve thousand seven hundred children already, ei- </p><p>ther decanted or in embryo. And still going strong. We'll beat them </p><p>yet." </p><p>"That's the spirit I like!" cried the Director, and clapped Mr. Foster on </p><p>the shoulder. "Come along with us, and give these boys the benefit of </p><p>your expert knowledge." </p><p>Mr. Foster smiled modestly. "With pleasure." They went. </p><p>In the Bottling Room all was harmonious bustle and ordered activity. </p><p>Flaps of fresh sow's peritoneum ready cut to the proper size came </p><p>shooting up in little lifts from the Organ Store in the sub-basement. </p><p>Whizz and then, click! the lift-hatches hew open; the bottle-liner had </p><p>only to reach out a hand, take the flap, insert, smooth-down, and be- </p><p>fore the lined bottle had had time to travel out of reach along the end-</p><p>less band, whizz, click! another flap of peritoneum had shot up from </p><p>the depths, ready to be slipped into yet another bottle, the next of that </p><p>slow interminable procession on the band. </p><p>Next to the Liners stood the Matriculators. The procession advanced; </p><p>one by one the eggs were transferred from their test-tubes to the </p><p>larger containers; deftly the peritoneal lining was slit, the morula </p><p>dropped into place, the saline solution poured in ... and already the </p><p>bottle had passed, and it was the turn of the labellers. Heredity, date </p><p>of fertilization, membership of Bokanovsky Group-details were trans- </p><p>ferred from test-tube to bottle. No longer anonymous, but named, </p><p>identified, the procession marched slowly on; on through an opening in </p><p>the wall, slowly on into the Social Predestination Room. </p><p>"Eighty-eight cubic metres of card-index," said Mr. Foster with relish, </p><p>as they entered. </p><p>"Containing all the relevant information," added the Director. </p><p>"Brought up to date every morning." </p><p>"And co-ordinated every afternoon." </p><p>"On the basis of which they make their calculations." </p><p>"So many individuals, of such and such quality," said Mr. Foster. </p><p>"Distributed in such and such quantities." </p><p>"The optimum Decanting Rate at any given moment." </p><p>"Unforeseen wastages promptly made good." </p><p>"Promptly," repeated Mr. Foster. "If you knew the amount of overtime I </p><p>had to put in after the last Japanese earthquake!" He laughed good- </p><p>humouredly and shook his head. </p><p>"The Predestinators send in their figures to the Fertilizers." </p><p>"Who give them the embryos they ask for." </p><p>"And the bottles come in here to be predestined in detail." </p><p>"After which they are sent down to the Embryo Store." </p><p>"Where we now proceed ourselves." </p><p>And opening a door Mr. Foster led the way down a staircase into the </p><p>basement. </p><p>The temperature was still tropical. They descended into a thickening </p><p>twilight. Two doors and a passage with a double turn insured the cellar </p><p>against any possible infiltration of the day. </p><p>"Embryos are like photograph film," said Mr. Foster waggishly, as he </p><p>pushed open the second door. "They can only stand red light." </p><p>And in effect the sultry darkness into which the students now followed</p><p>him was visible and crimson, like the darkness of closed eyes on a </p><p>summer's afternoon. The bulging flanks of row on receding row and </p><p>tier above tier of bottles glinted with innumerable rubies, and among </p><p>the rubies moved the dim red spectres of men and women with purple </p><p>eyes and all the symptoms of lupus. The hum and rattle of machinery </p><p>faintly stirred the air. </p><p>"Give them a few figures, Mr. Foster," said the Director, who was tired </p><p>of talking. </p><p>Mr. Foster was only too happy to give them a few figures. </p><p>Two hundred and twenty metres long, two hundred wide, ten high. He </p><p>pointed upwards. Like chickens drinking, the students lifted their eyes </p><p>towards the distant ceiling. </p><p>Three tiers of racks: ground floor level, first gallery, second gallery. </p><p>The spidery steel-work of gallery above gallery faded away in all direc- </p><p>tions into the dark. Near them three red ghosts were busily unloading </p><p>demijohns from a moving staircase. </p><p>The escalator from the Social Predestination Room. </p><p>Each bottle could be placed on one of fifteen racks, each rack, though </p><p>you couldn't see it, was a conveyor traveling at the rate of thirty-three </p><p>and a third centimetres an hour. Two hundred and sixty-seven days at </p><p>eight metres a day. Two thousand one hundred and thirty-six metres in </p><p>all. One circuit of the cellar at ground level, one on the first gallery, </p><p>half on the second, and on the two hundred and sixty-seventh morn- </p><p>ing, daylight in the Decanting Room. Independent existence-so called. </p><p>"But in the interval," Mr. Foster concluded, "we've managed to do a lot </p><p>to them. Oh, a very great deal." His laugh was knowing and trium- </p><p>phant. </p><p>"That's the spirit I like," said the Director once more. "Let's walk </p><p>around. You tell them everything, Mr. Foster." </p><p>Mr. Foster duly told them. </p><p>Told them of the growing embryo on its bed of peritoneum. Made them </p><p>taste the rich blood surrogate on which it fed. Explained why it had to </p><p>be stimulated with placentin and thyroxin. Told them of the corpus lu- </p><p>teum extract. Showed them the jets through which at every twelfth </p><p>metre from zero to 2040 it was automatically injected. Spoke of those </p><p>gradually increasing doses of pituitary administered during the final </p><p>ninety-six metres of their course. Described the artificial maternal cir- </p><p>culation installed in every bottle at Metre 112; showed them the reser- </p><p>voir of blood-surrogate, the centrifugal pump that kept the liquid mov- </p><p>ing over the placenta and drove it through the synthetic lung and </p><p>waste product filter. Referred to the embryo's troublesome tendency to </p><p>anaemia, to the massive doses of hog's stomach extract and foetal </p><p>foal's liver with which, in consequence, it had to be supplied. </p><p>Showed them the simple mechanism by means of which, during the </p><p>last two metres out of every eight, all the embryos were simultane- </p><p>ously shaken into familiarity with movement. Hinted at the gravity of</p><p>the so-called "trauma of decanting," and enumerated the precautions </p><p>taken to minimize, by a suitable training of the bottled embryo, that </p><p>dangerous shock. Told them of the test for sex carried out in the </p><p>neighborhood of Metre 200. Explained the system of labelling— a T for </p><p>the males, a circle for the females and for those who were destined to </p><p>become freemartins a question mark, black on a white ground. </p><p>"For of course," said Mr. Foster, "in the vast majority of cases, fertility </p><p>is merely a nuisance. One fertile ovary in twelve hundred-that would </p><p>really be quite sufficient for our purposes. But we want to have a good </p><p>choice. And of course one must always have an enormous margin of </p><p>safety. So we allow as many as thirty per cent of the female embryos </p><p>to develop normally. The others get a dose of male sex-hormone every </p><p>twenty-four metres for the rest of the course. Result: they're decanted </p><p>as freemartins-structurally quite normal (except," he had to admit, </p><p>"that they do have the slightest tendency to grow beards), but sterile. </p><p>Guaranteed sterile. Which brings us at last," continued Mr. Foster, "out </p><p>of the realm of mere slavish imitation of nature into the much more in- </p><p>teresting world of human invention." </p><p>He rubbed his hands. For of course, they didn't content themselves </p><p>with merely hatching out embryos: any cow could do that. </p><p>"We also predestine and condition. We decant our babies as socialized </p><p>human beings, as Alphas or Epsilons, as future sewage workers or fu- </p><p>ture ..." He was going to say "future World controllers," but correcting </p><p>himself, said "future Directors of Hatcheries," instead. </p><p>The D.H.C. acknowledged the compliment with a smile. </p><p>They were passing Metre 320 on Rack 11. A young Beta-Minus me- </p><p>chanic was busy with screw-driver and spanner on the blood-surrogate </p><p>pump of a passing bottle. The hum of the electric motor deepened by </p><p>fractions of a tone as he turned the nuts. Down, down ... A final twist, </p><p>a glance at the revolution counter, and he was done. He moved two </p><p>paces down the line and began the same process on the next pump. </p><p>"Reducing the number of revolutions per minute," Mr. Foster explained. </p><p>"The surrogate goes round slower; therefore passes through the lung </p><p>at longer intervals; therefore gives the embryo less oxygen. Nothing </p><p>like oxygen-shortage for keeping an embryo below par." Again he </p><p>rubbed his hands. </p><p>"But why do you want to keep the embryo below par?" asked an in- </p><p>genuous student. </p><p>"Ass!" said the Director, breaking a long silence. "Hasn't it occurred to </p><p>you that an Epsilon embryo must have an Epsilon environment as well </p><p>as an Epsilon heredity?" </p><p>It evidently hadn't occurred to him. He was covered with confusion. </p><p>"The lower the caste," said Mr. Foster, "the shorter the oxygen." The </p><p>first organ affected was the brain. After that the skeleton. At seventy </p><p>per cent of normal oxygen you got dwarfs. At less than seventy eye- </p><p>less monsters. </p><p>"Who are no use at all," concluded Mr. Foster.</p><p>Whereas (his voice became confidential and eager), if they could dis- </p><p>cover a technique for shortening the period of maturation what a tri- </p><p>umph, what a benefaction to Society! </p><p>"Consider the horse." </p><p>They considered it. </p><p>Mature at six; the elephant at ten. While at thirteen a man is not yet </p><p>sexually mature; and is only full-grown at twenty. Hence, of course, </p><p>that fruit of delayed development, the human intelligence. </p><p>"But in Epsilons," said Mr. Foster very justly, "we don't need human in- </p><p>telligence." </p><p>Didn't need and didn't get it. But though the Epsilon mind was mature </p><p>at ten, the Epsilon body was not fit to work till eighteen. Long years of </p><p>superfluous and wasted immaturity. If the physical development could </p><p>be speeded up till it was as quick, say, as a cow's, what an enormous </p><p>saving to the Community! </p><p>"Enormous!" murmured the students. Mr. Foster's enthusiasm was in- </p><p>fectious. </p><p>He became rather technical; spoke of the abnormal endocrine co- </p><p>ordination which made men grow so slowly; postulated a germinal mu- </p><p>tation to account for it. Could the effects of this germinal mutation be </p><p>undone? Could the individual Epsilon embryo be made a revert, by a </p><p>suitable technique, to the normality of dogs and cows? That was the </p><p>problem. And it was all but solved. </p><p>Pilkington, at Mombasa, had produced individuals who were sexually </p><p>mature at four and full-grown at six and a half. A scientific triumph. </p><p>But socially useless. Six-year-old men and women were too stupid to </p><p>do even Epsilon work. And the process was an all-or-nothing one; ei- </p><p>ther you failed to modify at all, or else you modified the whole way. </p><p>They were still trying to find the ideal compromise between adults of </p><p>twenty and adults of six. So far without success. Mr. Foster sighed and </p><p>shook his head. </p><p>Their wanderings through the crimson twilight had brought them to </p><p>the neighborhood of Metre 170 on Rack 9. From this point onwards </p><p>Rack 9 was enclosed and the bottle performed the remainder of their </p><p>journey in a kind of tunnel, interrupted here and there by openings </p><p>two or three metres wide. </p><p>"Heat conditioning," said Mr. Foster. </p><p>Hot tunnels alternated with cool tunnels. Coolness was wedded to dis- </p><p>comfort in the form of hard X-rays. By the time they were decanted </p><p>the embryos had a horror of cold. They were predestined to emigrate </p><p>to the tropics, to be miner and acetate silk spinners and steel workers. </p><p>Later on their minds would be made to endorse the judgment of their </p><p>bodies. "We condition them to thrive on heat," concluded Mr. Foster. </p><p>"Our colleagues upstairs will teach them to love it."</p><p>"And that," put in the Director sententiously, "that is the secret of hap- </p><p>piness and virtue-liking what you've got to do. All conditioning aims at </p><p>that: making people like their unescapable social destiny." </p><p>In a gap between two tunnels, a nurse was delicately probing with a </p><p>long fine syringe into the gelatinous contents of a passing bottle. The </p><p>students and their guides stood watching her for a few moments in si- </p><p>lence. </p><p>"Well, Lenina," said Mr. Foster, when at last she withdrew the syringe </p><p>and straightened herself up. </p><p>The girl turned with a start. One could see that, for all the lupus and </p><p>the purple eyes, she was uncommonly pretty. </p><p>"Henry!" Her smile flashed redly at him-a row of coral teeth. </p><p>"Charming, charming," murmured the Director and, giving her two or </p><p>three little pats, received in exchange a rather deferential smile for </p><p>himself. </p><p>"What are you giving them?" asked Mr. Foster, making his tone very </p><p>professional. </p><p>"Oh, the usual typhoid and sleeping sickness." </p><p>"Tropical workers start being inoculated at Metre 150," Mr. Foster ex- </p><p>plained to the students. "The embryos still have gills. We immunize the </p><p>fish against the future man's diseases." Then, turning back to Lenina, </p><p>"Ten to five on the roof this afternoon," he said, "as usual." </p><p>"Charming," said the Director once more, and, with a final pat, moved </p><p>away after the others. </p><p>On Rack 10 rows of next generation's chemical workers were being </p><p>trained in the toleration of lead, caustic soda, tar, chlorine. The first of </p><p>a batch of two hundred and fifty embryonic rocket-plane engineers was </p><p>just passing the eleven hundred metre mark on Rack 3. A special </p><p>mechanism kept their containers in constant rotation. "To improve </p><p>their sense of balance," Mr. Foster explained. "Doing repairs on the </p><p>outside of a rocket in mid-air is a ticklish job. We slacken off the circu- </p><p>lation when they're right way up, so that they're half starved, and </p><p>double the flow of surrogate when they're upside down. They learn to </p><p>associate topsy-turvydom with well-being; in fact, they're only truly </p><p>happy when they're standing on their heads. </p><p>"And now," Mr. Foster went on, "I'd like to show you some very inter- </p><p>esting conditioning for Alpha Plus Intellectuals. We have a big batch of </p><p>them on Rack 5. First Gallery level," he called to two boys who had </p><p>started to go down to the ground floor. </p><p>"They're round about Metre 900," he explained. "You can't really do </p><p>any useful intellectual conditioning till the foetuses have lost their tails. </p><p>Follow me." </p><p>But the Director had looked at his watch. "Ten to three," he said. "No </p><p>time for the intellectual embryos, I'm afraid. We must go up to the</p><p>Nurseries before the children have finished their afternoon sleep." </p><p>Mr. Foster was disappointed. "At least one glance at the Decanting </p><p>Room," he pleaded. </p><p>"Very well then." The Director smiled indulgently. "Just one glance." </p><p>Mr. FOSTER was left in the Decanting Room. The D.H.C. and his stu- </p><p>dents stepped into the nearest lift and were carried up to the fifth </p><p>floor. </p><p>INFANT NURSERIES. NEO-PAVLOVIAN CONDITIONING ROOMS, an- </p><p>nounced the notice board. </p><p>The Director opened a door. They were in a large bare room, very </p><p>bright and sunny; for the whole of the southern wall was a single win- </p><p>dow. Half a dozen nurses, trousered and jacketed in the regulation </p><p>white viscose-linen uniform, their hair aseptically hidden under white </p><p>caps, were engaged in setting out bowls of roses in a long row across </p><p>the floor. Big bowls, packed tight with blossom. Thousands of petals, </p><p>ripe-blown and silkily smooth, like the cheeks of innumerable little </p><p>cherubs, but of cherubs, in that bright light, not exclusively pink and </p><p>Aryan, but also luminously Chinese, also Mexican, also apoplectic with </p><p>too much blowing of celestial trumpets, also pale as death, pale with </p><p>the posthumous whiteness of marble. </p><p>The nurses stiffened to attention as the D.H.C. came in. </p><p>"Set out the books," he said curtly. </p><p>In silence the nurses obeyed his command. Between the rose bowls </p><p>the books were duly set out-a row of nursery quartos opened invit- </p><p>ingly each at some gaily coloured image of beast or fish or bird. </p><p>"Now bring in the children." </p><p>They hurried out of the room and returned in a minute or two, each </p><p>pushing a kind of tall dumb-waiter laden, on all its four wire-netted </p><p>shelves, with eight-month-old babies, all exactly alike (a Bokanovsky </p><p>Group, it was evident) and all (since their caste was Delta) dressed in </p><p>khaki. </p><p>"Put them down on the floor." </p><p>The infants were unloaded. </p><p>"Now turn them so that they can see the flowers and books." </p><p>Turned, the babies at once fell silent, then began to crawl towards </p><p>those clusters of sleek colours, those shapes so gay and brilliant on </p><p>the white pages. As they approached, the sun came out of a momen- </p><p>tary eclipse behind a cloud. The roses flamed up as though with a sud- </p><p>den passion from within; a new and profound significance seemed to </p><p>suffuse the shining pages of the books. From the ranks of the crawling </p><p>babies came little squeals of excitement, gurgles and twitterings of</p><p>pleasure. </p><p>The Director rubbed his hands. "Excellent!" he said. "It might almost </p><p>have been done on purpose." </p><p>The swiftest crawlers were already at their goal. Small hands reached </p><p>out uncertainly, touched, grasped, unpetaling the transfigured roses, </p><p>crumpling the illuminated pages of the books. The Director waited until </p><p>all were happily busy. Then, "Watch carefully," he said. And, lifting his </p><p>hand, he gave the signal. </p><p>The Head Nurse, who was standing by a switchboard at the other end </p><p>of the room, pressed down a little lever. </p><p>There was a violent explosion. Shriller and ever shriller, a siren </p><p>shrieked. Alarm bells maddeningly sounded. </p><p>The children started, screamed; their faces were distorted with terror. </p><p>"And now," the Director shouted (for the noise was deafening), "now </p><p>we proceed to rub in the lesson with a mild electric shock." </p><p>He waved his hand again, and the Head Nurse pressed a second lever. </p><p>The screaming of the babies suddenly changed its tone. There was </p><p>something desperate, almost insane, about the sharp spasmodic yelps </p><p>to which they now gave utterance. Their little bodies twitched and </p><p>stiffened; their limbs moved jerkily as if to the tug of unseen wires. </p><p>"We can electrify that whole strip of floor," bawled the Director in ex- </p><p>planation. "But that's enough," he signalled to the nurse. </p><p>The explosions ceased, the bells stopped ringing, the shriek of the si- </p><p>ren died down from tone to tone into silence. The stiffly twitching bod- </p><p>ies relaxed, and what had become the sob and yelp of infant maniacs </p><p>broadened out once more into a normal howl of ordinary terror. </p><p>"Offer them the flowers and the books again." </p><p>The nurses obeyed; but at the approach of the roses, at the mere sight </p><p>of those gaily-coloured images of pussy and cock-a-doodle-doo and </p><p>baa-baa black sheep, the infants shrank away in horror, the volume of </p><p>their howling suddenly increased. </p><p>"Observe," said the Director triumphantly, "observe." </p><p>Books and loud noises, flowers and electric shocks-already in the in- </p><p>fant mind these couples were compromisingly linked; and after two </p><p>hundred repetitions of the same or a similar lesson would be wedded </p><p>indissolubly. What man has joined, nature is powerless to put asunder. </p><p>"They'll grow up with what the psychologists used to call an 'instinc- </p><p>tive' hatred of books and flowers. Reflexes unalterably conditioned. </p><p>They'll be safe from books and botany all their lives." The Director </p><p>turned to his nurses. "Take them away again." </p><p>Still yelling, the khaki babies were loaded on to their dumb-waiters</p><p>and wheeled out, leaving behind them the smell of sour milk and a </p><p>most welcome silence. </p><p>One of the students held up his hand; and though he could see quite </p><p>well why you couldn't have lower-cast people wasting the Community's </p><p>time over books, and that there was always the risk of their reading </p><p>something which might undesirably decondition one of their reflexes, </p><p>yet ... well, he couldn't understand about the flowers. Why go to the </p><p>trouble of making it psychologically impossible for Deltas to like flow- </p><p>ers? </p><p>Patiently the D.H.C. explained. If the children were made to scream at </p><p>the sight of a rose, that was on grounds of high economic policy. Not </p><p>so very long ago (a century or thereabouts), Gammas, Deltas, even </p><p>Epsilons, had been conditioned to like flowers-flowers in particular and </p><p>wild nature in general. The idea was to make them want to be going </p><p>out into the country at every available opportunity, and so compel </p><p>them to consume transport. </p><p>"And didn't they consume transport?" asked the student. </p><p>"Quite a lot," the D.H.C. replied. "But nothing else." </p><p>Primroses and landscapes, he pointed out, have one grave defect: they </p><p>are gratuitous. A love of nature keeps no factories busy. It was decided </p><p>to abolish the love of nature, at any rate among the lower classes; to </p><p>abolish the love of nature, but not the tendency to consume transport. </p><p>For of course it was essential that they should keep on going to the </p><p>country, even though they hated it. The problem was to find an eco- </p><p>nomically sounder reason for consuming transport than a mere affec- </p><p>tion for primroses and landscapes. It was duly found. </p><p>"We condition the masses to hate the country," concluded the Director. </p><p>"But simultaneously we condition them to love all country sports. At </p><p>the same time, we see to it that all country sports shall entail the use </p><p>of elaborate apparatus. So that they consume manufactured articles as </p><p>well as transport. Hence those electric shocks." </p><p>"I see," said the student, and was silent, lost in admiration. </p><p>There was a silence; then, clearing his throat, "Once upon a time," the </p><p>Director began, "while our Ford was still on earth, there was a little </p><p>boy called Reuben Rabinovitch. Reuben was the child of Polish- </p><p>speaking parents." </p><p>The Director interrupted himself. "You know what Polish is, I suppose?" </p><p>"A dead language." </p><p>"Like French and German," added another student, officiously showing </p><p>off his learning. </p><p>"And 'parent'?" questioned the D.H.C. </p><p>There was an uneasy silence. Several of the boys blushed. They had </p><p>not yet learned to draw the significant but often very fine distinction </p><p>between smut and pure science. One, at last, had the courage to raise </p><p>a hand. </p><p>"Human beings used to be ..." he hesitated; the blood rushed to his </p><p>cheeks. "Well, they used to be viviparous." </p><p>"Quite right." The Director nodded approvingly. </p><p>"And when the babies were decanted ..." </p><p>'"Born,"' came the correction. </p><p>"Well, then they were the parents-I mean, not the babies, of course; </p><p>the other ones." The poor boy was overwhelmed with confusion. </p><p>"In brief," the Director summed up, "the parents were the father and </p><p>the mother." The smut that was really science fell with a crash into the </p><p>boys' eye-avoiding silence. "Mother," he repeated loudly rubbing in the </p><p>science; and, leaning back in his chair, "These," he said gravely, "are </p><p>unpleasant facts; I know it. But then most historical facts are unpleas- </p><p>ant." </p><p>He returned to Little Reuben-to Little Reuben, in whose room, one </p><p>evening, by an oversight, his father and mother (crash, crash!) hap- </p><p>pened to leave the radio turned on. </p><p>("For you must remember that in those days of gross viviparous re- </p><p>production, children were always brought up by their parents and not </p><p>in State Conditioning Centres.") </p><p>While the child was asleep, a broadcast programme from London sud- </p><p>denly started to come through; and the next morning, to the aston- </p><p>ishment of his crash and crash (the more daring of the boys ventured </p><p>to grin at one another), Little Reuben woke up repeating word for word </p><p>a long lecture by that curious old writer ("one of the very few whose </p><p>works have been permitted to come down to us"), George Bernard </p><p>Shaw, who was speaking, according to a well-authenticated tradition, </p><p>about his own genius. To Little Reuben's wink and snigger, this lecture </p><p>was, of course, perfectly incomprehensible and, imagining that their </p><p>child had suddenly gone mad, they sent for a doctor. He, fortunately, </p><p>understood English, recognized the discourse as that which Shaw had </p><p>broadcasted the previous evening, realized the significance of what </p><p>had happened, and sent a letter to the medical press about it. </p><p>"The principle of sleep-teaching, or hypnopaedia, had been discov- </p><p>ered." The D.H.C. made an impressive pause. </p><p>The principle had been discovered; but many, many years were to </p><p>elapse before that principle was usefully applied. </p><p>"The case of Little Reuben occurred only twenty-three years after Our </p><p>Ford's first T-Model was put on the market." (Here the Director made a </p><p>sign of the T on his stomach and all the students reverently followed </p><p>suit.) "And yet ..." </p><p>Furiously the students scribbled. " Hypnopaedia, first used officially in </p><p>A.F. 214. Why not before ? Two reasons, (a) ..." </p><p>"These early experimenters," the D.H.C. was saying, "were on the </p><p>wrong track. They thought that hypnopaedia could be made an instru- </p><p>ment of intellectual education ..." </p><p>(A small boy asleep on his right side, the right arm stuck out, the right </p><p>hand hanging limp over the edge of the bed. Through a round grating </p><p>in the side of a box a voice speaks softly. </p><p>"The Nile is the longest river in Africa and the second in length of all </p><p>the rivers of the globe. Although falling short of the length of the </p><p>Mississippi-Missouri, the Nile is at the head of all rivers as regards the </p><p>length of its basin, which extends through 35 degrees of latitude ..." </p><p>At breakfast the next morning, "Tommy," some one says, "do you </p><p>know which is the longest river in Africa?" A shaking of the head. "But </p><p>don't you remember something that begins: The Nile is the ..." </p><p>"The - Nile - is - the - longest - river - in - Africa - and - the - second - </p><p>in - length - of - all - the - rivers - of - the - globe ..." The words come </p><p>rushing out. "Although - falling - short - of ..." </p><p>"Well now, which is the longest river in Africa?" </p><p>The eyes are blank. "I don't know." </p><p>"But the Nile, Tommy." </p><p>"The - Nile - is - the - longest - river - in - Africa - and - second ..." </p><p>"Then which river is the longest, Tommy?" </p><p>Tommy burst into tears. "I don't know," he howls.) </p><p>That howl, the Director made it plain, discouraged the earliest investi- </p><p>gators. The experiments were abandoned. No further attempt was </p><p>made to teach children the length of the Nile in their sleep. Quite </p><p>rightly. You can't learn a science unless you know what it's all about. </p><p>"Whereas, if they'd only started on moral education," said the Director, </p><p>leading the way towards the door. The students followed him, desper- </p><p>ately scribbling as they walked and all the way up in the lift. "Moral </p><p>education, which ought never, in any circumstances, to be rational." </p><p>"Silence, silence," whispered a loud speaker as they stepped out at the </p><p>fourteenth floor, and "Silence, silence," the trumpet mouths indefati- </p><p>gably repeated at intervals down every corridor. The students and </p><p>even the Director himself rose automatically to the tips of their toes. </p><p>They were Alphas, of course, but even Alphas have been well condi- </p><p>tioned. "Silence, silence." All the air of the fourteenth floor was sibilant </p><p>with the categorical imperative. </p><p>Fifty yards of tiptoeing brought them to a door which the Director cau- </p><p>tiously opened. They stepped over the threshold into the twilight of a </p><p>shuttered dormitory. Eighty cots stood in a row against the wall. There</p><p>was a sound of light regular breathing and a continuous murmur, as of </p><p>very faint voices remotely whispering. </p><p>A nurse rose as they entered and came to attention before the Direc- </p><p>tor. </p><p>"What's the lesson this afternoon?" he asked. </p><p>"We had Elementary Sex for the first forty minutes," she answered. </p><p>"But now it's switched over to Elementary Class Consciousness." </p><p>The Director walked slowly down the long line of cots. Rosy and re- </p><p>laxed with sleep, eighty little boys and girls lay softly breathing. There </p><p>was a whisper under every pillow. The D.H.C. halted and, bending over </p><p>one of the little beds, listened attentively. </p><p>"Elementary Class Consciousness, did you say? Let's have it repeated </p><p>a little louder by the trumpet." </p><p>At the end of the room a loud speaker projected from the wall. The Di- </p><p>rector walked up to it and pressed a switch. </p><p>"... all wear green," said a soft but very distinct voice, beginning in the </p><p>middle of a sentence, "and Delta Children wear khaki. Oh no, I don't </p><p>want to play with Delta children. And Epsilons are still worse. They're </p><p>too stupid to be able to read or write. Besides they wear black, which </p><p>is such a beastly colour. I'm so glad I'm a Beta." </p><p>There was a pause; then the voice began again. </p><p>"Alpha children wear grey They work much harder than we do, be- </p><p>cause they're so frightfully clever. I'm really awfuly glad I'm a Beta, </p><p>because I don't work so hard. And then we are much better than the </p><p>Gammas and Deltas. Gammas are stupid. They all wear green, and </p><p>Delta children wear khaki. Oh no, I don't want to play with Delta chil- </p><p>dren. And Epsilons are still worse. They're too stupid to be able ..." </p><p>The Director pushed back the switch. The voice was silent. Only its </p><p>thin ghost continued to mutter from beneath the eighty pillows. </p><p>"They'll have that repeated forty or fifty times more before they wake; </p><p>then again on Thursday, and again on Saturday. A hundred and twenty </p><p>times three times a week for thirty months. After which they go on to </p><p>a more advanced lesson." </p><p>Roses and electric shocks, the khaki of Deltas and a whiff of asafceti- </p><p>da-wedded indissolubly before the child can speak. But wordless con- </p><p>ditioning is crude and wholesale; cannot bring home the finer distinc- </p><p>tions, cannot inculcate the more complex courses of behaviour. For </p><p>that there must be words, but words without reason. In brief, hyp- </p><p>nopaedia. </p><p>"The greatest moralizing and socializing force of all time." </p><p>The students took it down in their little books. Straight from the </p><p>horse's mouth. </p><p>Once more the Director touched the switch. </p><p>"... so frightfully clever," the soft, insinuating, indefatigable voice was </p><p>saying, "I'm really awfully glad I'm a Beta, because ..." </p><p>Not so much like drops of water, though water, it is true, can wear </p><p>holes in the hardest granite; rather, drops of liquid sealing-wax, drops </p><p>that adhere, incrust, incorporate themselves with what they fall on, till </p><p>finally the rock is all one scarlet blob. </p><p>"Till at last the child's mind is these suggestions, and the sum of the </p><p>suggestions is the child's mind. And not the child's mind only. The </p><p>adult's mind too-all his life long. The mind that judges and desires and </p><p>decides-made up of these suggestions. But all these suggestions are </p><p>our suggestions!" The Director almost shouted in his triumph. "Sug- </p><p>gestions from the State." He banged the nearest table. "It therefore </p><p>follows ..." </p><p>A noise made him turn round. </p><p>"Oh, Ford!" he said in another tone, "I've gone and woken the chil- </p><p>dren." </p><p>OUTSIDE, in the garden, it was playtime. Naked in the warm June </p><p>sunshine, six or seven hundred little boys and girls were running with </p><p>shrill yells over the lawns, or playing ball games, or squatting silently </p><p>in twos and threes among the flowering shrubs. The roses were in </p><p>bloom, two nightingales soliloquized in the boskage, a cuckoo was just </p><p>going out of tune among the lime trees. The air was drowsy with the </p><p>murmur of bees and helicopters. </p><p>The Director and his students stood for a short time watching a game </p><p>of Centrifugal Bumble-puppy. Twenty children were grouped in a circle </p><p>round a chrome steel tower. A ball thrown up so as to land on the plat- </p><p>form at the top of the tower rolled down into the interior, fell on a rap- </p><p>idly revolving disk, was hurled through one or other of the numerous </p><p>apertures pierced in the cylindrical casing, and had to be caught. </p><p>"Strange," mused the Director, as they turned away, "strange to think </p><p>that even in Our Ford's day most games were played without more ap- </p><p>paratus than a ball or two and a few sticks and perhaps a bit of net- </p><p>ting. imagine the folly of allowing people to play elaborate games </p><p>which do nothing whatever to increase consumption. It's madness. </p><p>Nowadays the Controllers won't approve of any new game unless it </p><p>can be shown that it requires at least as much apparatus as the most </p><p>complicated of existing games." He interrupted himself. </p><p>"That's a charming little group," he said, pointing. </p><p>In a little grassy bay between tall clumps of Mediterranean heather, </p><p>two children, a little boy of about seven and a little girl who might </p><p>have been a year older, were playing, very gravely and with all the fo- </p><p>cussed attention of scientists intent on a labour of discovery, a rudi- </p><p>mentary sexual game. </p><p>"Charming, charming!" the D.H.C. repeated sentimentally. </p><p>"Charming," the boys politely agreed. But their smile was rather pa- </p><p>tronizing. They had put aside similar childish amusements too recently </p><p>to be able to watch them now without a touch of contempt. Charming? </p><p>but it was just a pair of kids fooling about; that was all. Just kids. </p><p>"I always think," the Director was continuing in the same rather maud- </p><p>lin tone, when he was interrupted by a loud boo-hooing. </p><p>From a neighbouring shrubbery emerged a nurse, leading by the hand </p><p>a small boy, who howled as he went. An anxious-looking little girl trot- </p><p>ted at her heels. </p><p>"What's the matter?" asked the Director. </p><p>The nurse shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing much," she answered. </p><p>"It's just that this little boy seems rather reluctant to join in the ordi- </p><p>nary erotic play. I'd noticed it once or twice before. And now again to- </p><p>day. He started yelling just now ..." </p><p>"Honestly," put in the anxious-looking little girl, "I didn't mean to hurt </p><p>him or anything. Honestly." </p><p>"Of course you didn't, dear," said the nurse reassuringly. "And so," she </p><p>went on, turning back to the Director, "I'm taking him in to see the As- </p><p>sistant Superintendent of Psychology. Just to see if anything's at all </p><p>abnormal." </p><p>"Quite right," said the Director. "Take him in. You stay here, little girl," </p><p>he added, as the nurse moved away with her still howling charge. </p><p>"What's your name?" </p><p>"Polly Trotsky." </p><p>"And a very good name too," said the Director. "Run away now and see </p><p>if you can find some other little boy to play with." </p><p>The child scampered off into the bushes and was lost to sight. </p><p>"Exquisite little creature!" said the Director, looking after her. Then, </p><p>turning to his students, "What I'm going to tell you now," he said, </p><p>"may sound incredible. But then, when you're not accustomed to his- </p><p>tory, most facts about the past do sound incredible." </p><p>He let out the amazing truth. For a very long period before the time of </p><p>Our Ford, and even for some generations afterwards, erotic play be- </p><p>tween children had been regarded as abnormal (there was a roar of </p><p>laughter); and not only abnormal, actually immoral (no!): and had</p><p>therefore been rigorously suppressed. </p><p>A look of astonished incredulity appeared on the faces of his listeners. </p><p>Poor little kids not allowed to amuse themselves? They could not be- </p><p>lieve it. </p><p>"Even adolescents," the D.H.C. was saying, "even adolescents like </p><p>yourselves ..." </p><p>"Not possible!" </p><p>"Barring a little surreptitious auto-erotism and homosexuality-abso- </p><p>lutely nothing." </p><p>"Nothing?" </p><p>"In most cases, till they were over twenty years old." </p><p>"Twenty years old?" echoed the students in a chorus of loud disbelief. </p><p>"Twenty," the Director repeated. "I told you that you'd find it incredi- </p><p>ble." </p><p>"But what happened?" they asked. "What were the results?" </p><p>"The results were terrible." A deep resonant voice broke startlingly into </p><p>the dialogue. </p><p>They looked around. On the fringe of the little group stood a stranger- </p><p>a man of middle height, black-haired, with a hooked nose, full red lips, </p><p>eyes very piercing and dark. "Terrible," he repeated. </p><p>The D.H.C. had at that moment sat down on one of the steel and rub- </p><p>ber benches conveniently scattered through the gardens; but at the </p><p>sight of the stranger, he sprang to his feet and darted forward, his </p><p>hand outstretched, smiling with all his teeth, effusive. </p><p>"Controller! What an unexpected pleasure! Boys, what are you thinking </p><p>of? This is the Controller; this is his fordship, Mustapha Mond." </p><p>In the four thousand rooms of the Centre the four thousand electric </p><p>clocks simultaneously struck four. Discarnate voices called from the </p><p>trumpet mouths. </p><p>"Main Day-shift off duty. Second Day-shift take over. Main Day-shift off </p><p>In the lift, on their way up to the changing rooms, Henry Foster and </p><p>the Assistant Director of Predestination rather pointedly turned their </p><p>backs on Bernard Marx from the Psychology Bureau: averted them- </p><p>selves from that unsavoury reputation. </p><p>The faint hum and rattle of machinery still stirred the crimson air in </p><p>the Embryo Store. Shifts might come and go, one lupus-coloured face </p><p>give place to another; majestically and for ever the conveyors crept </p><p>forward with their load of future men and women.</p><p>Lenina Crowne walked briskly towards the door. </p><p>His fordship Mustapha Mond! The eyes of the saluting students almost </p><p>popped out of their heads. Mustapha Mond! The Resident Controller for </p><p>Western Europe! One of the Ten World Controllers. One of the Ten ... </p><p>and he sat down on the bench with the D.H.C., he was going to stay, </p><p>to stay, yes, and actually talk to them ... straight from the horse's </p><p>mouth. Straight from the mouth of Ford himself. </p><p>Two shrimp-brown children emerged from a neighbouring shrubbery, </p><p>stared at them for a moment with large, astonished eyes, then re- </p><p>turned to their amusements among the leaves. </p><p>"You all remember," said the Controller, in his strong deep voice, "you </p><p>all remember, I suppose, that beautiful and inspired saying of Our </p><p>Ford's: History is bunk. History," he repeated slowly, "is bunk." </p><p>He waved his hand; and it was as though, with an invisible feather </p><p>wisk, he had brushed away a little dust, and the dust was Harappa, </p><p>was Ur of the Chaldees; some spider-webs, and they were Thebes and </p><p>Babylon and Cnossos and Mycenae. Whisk. Whisk-and where was </p><p>Odysseus, where was Job, where were Jupiter and Gotama and Jesus? </p><p>Whisk-and those specks of antique dirt called Athens and Rome, Jeru- </p><p>salem and the Middle Kingdom-all were gone. Whisk-the place where </p><p>Italy had been was empty. Whisk, the cathedrals; whisk, whisk, King </p><p>Lear and the Thoughts of Pascal. Whisk, Passion; whisk, Requiem; </p><p>whisk, Symphony; whisk ... </p><p>"Going to the Feelies this evening, Henry?" enquired the Assistant Pre- </p><p>destinator. "I hear the new one at the Alhambra is first-rate. There's a </p><p>love scene on a bearskin rug; they say it's marvellous. Every hair of </p><p>the bear reproduced. The most amazing tactual effects." </p><p>"That's why you're taught no history," the Controller was saying. "But </p><p>now the time has come ..." </p><p>The D.H.C. looked at him nervously. There were those strange rumours </p><p>of old forbidden books hidden in a safe in the Controller's study. Bibles, </p><p>poetry-Ford knew what. </p><p>Mustapha Mond intercepted his anxious glance and the corners of his </p><p>red lips twitched ironically. </p><p>"It's all right, Director," he said in a tone of faint derision, "I won't cor- </p><p>rupt them." </p><p>The D.H.C. was overwhelmed with confusion. </p><p>Those who feel themselves despised do well to look despising. The </p><p>smile on Bernard Marx's face was contemptuous. Every hair on the </p><p>bear indeed! </p><p>"I shall make a point of going," said Henry Foster. </p><p>Mustapha Mond leaned forward, shook a finger at them. "Just try to </p><p>realize it," he said, and his voice sent a strange thrill quivering along </p><p>their diaphragms. "Try to realize what it was like to have a viviparous </p><p>mother." </p><p>That smutty word again. But none of them dreamed, this time, of smil- </p><p>ing. </p><p>"Try to imagine what 'living with one's family' meant." </p><p>They tried; but obviously without the smallest success. </p><p>"And do you know what a 'home' was?" </p><p>They shook their heads. </p><p>From her dim crimson cellar Lenina Crowne shot up seventeen stories, </p><p>turned to the right as she stepped out of the lift, walked down a long </p><p>corridor and, opening the door marked GIRLS' DRESSING-ROOM, </p><p>plunged into a deafening chaos of arms and bosoms and undercloth- </p><p>ing. Torrents of hot water were splashing into or gurgling out of a hun- </p><p>dred baths. Rumbling and hissing, eighty vibro-vacuum massage ma- </p><p>chines were simultaneously kneading and sucking the firm and sun- </p><p>burnt flesh of eighty superb female specimens. Every one was talking </p><p>at the top of her voice. A Synthetic Music machine was warbling out a </p><p>super-cornet solo. </p><p>"Hullo, Fanny," said Lenina to the young woman who had the pegs and </p><p>locker next to hers. </p><p>Fanny worked in the Bottling Room, and her surname was also </p><p>Crowne. But as the two thousand million inhabitants of the plant had </p><p>only ten thousand names between them, the coincidence was not par- </p><p>ticularly surprising. </p><p>Lenina pulled at her zippers-downwards on the jacket, downwards with </p><p>a double-handed gesture at the two that held trousers, downwards </p><p>again to loosen her undergarment. Still wearing her shoes and stock- </p><p>ings, she walked off towards the bathrooms. </p><p>Home, home-a few small rooms, stiflingly over-inhabited by a man, by </p><p>a periodically teeming woman, by a rabble of boys and girls of all ages. </p><p>No air, no space; an understerilized prison; darkness, disease, and </p><p>smells. </p><p>(The Controller's evocation was so vivid that one of the boys, more </p><p>sensitive than the rest, turned pale at the mere description and was on </p><p>the point of being sick.) </p><p>Lenina got out of the bath, toweled herself dry, took hold of a long </p><p>flexible tube plugged into the wall, presented the nozzle to her breast, </p><p>as though she meant to commit suicide, pressed down the trigger. A </p><p>blast of warmed air dusted her with the finest talcum powder. Eight </p><p>different scents and eau-de-Cologne were laid on in little taps over the </p><p>wash-basin. She turned on the third from the left, dabbed herself with </p><p>chypre and, carrying her shoes and stockings in her hand, went out to</p><p>see if one of the vibro-vacuum machines were free. </p><p>And home was as squalid psychically as physically. Psychically, it was a </p><p>rabbit hole, a midden, hot with the frictions of tightly packed life, reek- </p><p>ing with emotion. What suffocating intimacies, what dangerous, in- </p><p>sane, obscene relationships between the members of the family group! </p><p>Maniacally, the mother brooded over her children ( her children) ... </p><p>brooded over them like a cat over its kittens; but a cat that could talk, </p><p>a cat that could say, "My baby, my baby," over and over again. "My </p><p>baby, and oh, oh, at my breast, the little hands, the hunger, and that </p><p>unspeakable agonizing pleasure! Till at last my baby sleeps, my baby </p><p>sleeps with a bubble of white milk at the corner of his mouth. My little </p><p>baby sleeps ..." </p><p>"Yes," said Mustapha Mond, nodding his head, "you may well shudder." </p><p>"Who are you going out with to-night?" Lenina asked, returning from </p><p>the vibro-vac like a pearl illuminated from within, pinkly glowing. </p><p>"Nobody." </p><p>Lenina raised her eyebrows in astonishment. </p><p>"I've been feeling rather out of sorts lately," Fanny explained. "Dr. </p><p>Wells advised me to have a Pregnancy Substitute." </p><p>"But, my dear, you're only nineteen. The first Pregnancy Substitute </p><p>isn't compulsory till twenty-one." </p><p>"I know, dear. But some people are better if they begin earlier. Dr. </p><p>Wells told me that brunettes with wide pelvises, like me, ought to have </p><p>their first Pregnancy Substitute at seventeen. So I'm really two years </p><p>late, not two years early." She opened the door of her locker and </p><p>pointed to the row of boxes and labelled phials on the upper shelf. </p><p>"SYRUP OF CORPUS LUTEUM," Lenina read the names aloud. "OVARIN, </p><p>GUARANTEED FRESH: NOT TO BE USED AFTER AUGUST 1ST, A.F. 632. </p><p>MAMMARY GLAND EXTRACT: TO BE TAKEN THREE TIMES DAILY, BE- </p><p>FORE MEALS, WITH A LITTLE WATER. PLACENTIN: 5cc TO BE IN- </p><p>JECTED INTRAVENALLY EVERY THIRD DAY ... Ugh!" Lenina shuddered. </p><p>"How I loathe intravenals, don't you?" </p><p>"Yes. But when they do one good ..." Fanny was a particularly sensible </p><p>girl. </p><p>Our Ford-or Our Freud, as, for some inscrutable reason, he chose to </p><p>call himself whenever he spoke of psychological matters-Our Freud </p><p>had been the first to reveal the appalling dangers of family life. The </p><p>world was full of fathers-was therefore full of misery; full of moth- </p><p>ers-therefore of every kind of perversion from sadism to chastity; full </p><p>of brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts-full of madness and suicide. </p><p>"And yet, among the savages of Samoa, in certain islands off the coast </p><p>of New Guinea ..."</p><p>The tropical sunshine lay like warm honey on the naked bodies of chil- </p><p>dren tumbling promiscuously among the hibiscus blossoms. Home was </p><p>in any one of twenty palm-thatched houses. In the Trobriands concep- </p><p>tion was the work of ancestral ghosts; nobody had ever heard of a fa- </p><p>ther. </p><p>"Extremes," said the Controller, "meet. For the good reason that they </p><p>were made to meet." </p><p>"Dr. Wells says that a three months' Pregnancy Substitute now will </p><p>make all the difference to my health for the next three or four years." </p><p>"Well, I hope he's right," said Lenina. "But, Fanny, do you really mean </p><p>to say that for the next three months you're not supposed to ..." </p><p>"Oh no, dear. Only for a week or two, that's all. I shall spend the eve- </p><p>ning at the Club playing Musical Bridge. I suppose you're going out?" </p><p>Lenina nodded. </p><p>"Who with?" </p><p>"Henry Foster." </p><p>"Again?" Fanny's kind, rather moon-like face took on an incongruous </p><p>expression of pained and disapproving astonishment. "Do you mean to </p><p>tell me you're still going out with Henry Foster?" </p><p>Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. But there were also hus- </p><p>bands, wives, lovers. There were also monogamy and romance. </p><p>"Though you probably don't know what those are," said Mustapha </p><p>Mond. </p><p>They shook their heads. </p><p>Family, monogamy, romance. Everywhere exclusiveness, a narrow </p><p>channelling of impulse and energy. </p><p>"But every one belongs to every one else," he concluded, citing the </p><p>hypnopaedic proverb. </p><p>The students nodded, emphatically agreeing with a statement which </p><p>upwards of sixty-two thousand repetitions in the dark had made them </p><p>accept, not merely as true, but as axiomatic, self-evident, utterly in- </p><p>disputable. </p><p>"But after all," Lenina was protesting, "it's only about four months now </p><p>since I've been having Henry." </p><p>"Only four months! I like that. And what's more," Fanny went on, </p><p>pointing an accusing finger, "there's been nobody else except Henry all </p><p>that time. Has there?" </p><p>Lenina blushed scarlet; but her eyes, the tone of her voice remained </p><p>defiant. "No, there hasn't been any one else," she answered almost </p><p>truculently. "And I jolly well don't see why there should have been." </p><p>"Oh, she jolly well doesn't see why there should have been," Fanny re- </p><p>peated, as though to an invisible listener behind Lenina's left shoulder. </p><p>Then, with a sudden change of tone, "But seriously," she said, "I really </p><p>do think you ought to be careful. It's such horribly bad form to go on </p><p>and on like this with one man. At forty, or thirty-five, it wouldn't be so </p><p>bad. But at your age, Lenina! No, it really won't do. And you know how </p><p>strongly the D.H.C. objects to anything intense or long-drawn. Four </p><p>months of Henry Foster, without having another man-why, he'd be fu- </p><p>rious if he knew ..." </p><p>"Think of water under pressure in a pipe." They thought of it. "I pierce </p><p>it once," said the Controller. "What a jet!" </p><p>He pierced it twenty times. There were twenty piddling little fountains. </p><p>"My baby. My baby ...!" </p><p>"Mother!" The madness is infectious. </p><p>"My love, my one and only, precious, precious ..." </p><p>Mother, monogamy, romance. High spurts the fountain; fierce and </p><p>foamy the wild jet. The urge has but a single outlet. My love, my baby. </p><p>No wonder these poor pre-moderns were mad and wicked and miser- </p><p>able. Their world didn't allow them to take things easily, didn't allow </p><p>them to be sane, virtuous, happy. What with mothers and lovers, what </p><p>with the prohibitions they were not conditioned to obey, what with the </p><p>temptations and the lonely remorses, what with all the diseases and </p><p>the endless isolating pain, what with the uncertainties and the pover- </p><p>ty-they were forced to feel strongly. And feeling strongly (and </p><p>strongly, what was more, in solitude, in hopelessly individual isolation), </p><p>how could they be stable? </p><p>"Of course there's no need to give him up. Have somebody else from </p><p>time to time, that's all. He has other girls, doesn't he?" </p><p>Lenina admitted it. </p><p>"Of course he does. Trust Henry Foster to be the perfect gentle- </p><p>man-always correct. And then there's the Director to think of. You </p><p>know what a stickler ..." </p><p>Nodding, "He patted me on the behind this afternoon," said Lenina. </p><p>"There, you see!" Fanny was triumphant. "That shows what he stands </p><p>for. The strictest conventionality." </p><p>"Stability," said the Controller, "stability. No civilization without social </p><p>stability. No social stability without individual stability." His voice was a </p><p>trumpet. Listening they felt larger, warmer. </p><p>The machine turns, turns and must keep on turning-for ever. It is</p><p>death if it stands still. A thousand millions scrabbled the crust of the </p><p>earth. The wheels began to turn. In a hundred and fifty years there </p><p>were two thousand millions. Stop all the wheels. In a hundred and fifty </p><p>weeks there are once more only a thousand millions; a thousand thou- </p><p>sand thousand men and women have starved to death. </p><p>Wheels must turn steadily, but cannot turn untended. There must be </p><p>men to tend them, men as steady as the wheels upon their axles, sane </p><p>men, obedient men, stable in contentment. </p><p>Crying: My baby, my mother, my only, only love groaning: My sin, my </p><p>terrible God; screaming with pain, muttering with fever, bemoaning old </p><p>age and poverty-how can they tend the wheels? And if they cannot </p><p>tend the wheels ... The corpses of a thousand thousand thousand men </p><p>and women would be hard to bury or burn. </p><p>"And after all," Fanny's tone was coaxing, "it's not as though there </p><p>were anything painful or disagreeable about having one or two men </p><p>besides Henry. And seeing that you ought to be a little more promiscu- </p><p>ous ..." </p><p>"Stability," insisted the Controller, "stability. The primal and the ulti- </p><p>mate need. Stability. Hence all this." </p><p>With a wave of his hand he indicated the gardens, the huge building of </p><p>the Conditioning Centre, the naked children furtive in the undergrowth </p><p>or running across the lawns. </p><p>Lenina shook her head. "Somehow," she mused, "I hadn't been feeling </p><p>very keen on promiscuity lately. There are times when one doesn't. </p><p>Haven't you found that too, Fanny?" </p><p>Fanny nodded her sympathy and understanding. "But one's got to </p><p>make the effort," she said, sententiously, "one's got to play the game. </p><p>After all, every one belongs to every one else." </p><p>"Yes, every one belongs to every one else," Lenina repeated slowly </p><p>and, sighing, was silent for a moment; then, taking Fanny's hand, </p><p>gave it a little squeeze. "You're quite right, Fanny. As usual. I'll make </p><p>the effort." </p><p>Impulse arrested spills over, and the flood is feeling, the flood is pas- </p><p>sion, the flood is even madness: it depends on the force of the current, </p><p>the height and strength of the barrier. The unchecked stream flows </p><p>smoothly down its appointed channels into a calm well-being. (The </p><p>embryo is hungry; day in, day out, the blood-surrogate pump unceas- </p><p>ingly turns its eight hundred revolutions a minute. The decanted infant </p><p>howls; at once a nurse appears with a bottle of external secretion. </p><p>Feeling lurks in that interval of time between desire and its consum- </p><p>mation. Shorten that interval, break down all those old unnecessary </p><p>barriers. </p><p>"Fortunate boys!" said the Controller. "No pains have been spared to </p><p>make your lives emotionally easy-to preserve you, so far as that is </p><p>possible, from having emotions at all." </p><p>"Ford's in his flivver," murmured the D.H.C. "All's well with the world."</p><p>"Lenina Crowne?" said Henry Foster, echoing the Assistant Predestina- </p><p>tor's question as he zipped up his trousers. "Oh, she's a splendid girl. </p><p>Wonderfully pneumatic. I'm surprised you haven't had her." </p><p>"I can't think how it is I haven't," said the Assistant Predestinator. "I </p><p>certainly will. At the first opportunity." </p><p>From his place on the opposite side of the changing-room aisle, Ber- </p><p>nard Marx overheard what they were saying and turned pale. </p><p>"And to tell the truth," said Lenina, "I'm beginning to get just a tiny bit </p><p>bored with nothing but Henry every day." She pulled on her left stock- </p><p>ing. "Do you know Bernard Marx?" she asked in a tone whose exces- </p><p>sive casualness was evidently forced. </p><p>Fanny looked startled. "You don't mean to say ...?" </p><p>"Why not? Bernard's an Alpha Plus. Besides, he asked me to go to one </p><p>of the Savage Reservations with him. I've always wanted to see a Sav- </p><p>age Reservation." </p><p>"But his reputation?" </p><p>"What do I care about his reputation?" </p><p>"They say he doesn't like Obstacle Golf." </p><p>"They say, they say," mocked Lenina. </p><p>"And then he spends most of his time by himself-alone." There was </p><p>horror in Fanny's voice. </p><p>"Well, he won't be alone when he's with me. And anyhow, why are </p><p>people so beastly to him? I think he's rather sweet." She smiled to </p><p>herself; how absurdly shy he had been! Frightened almost-as though </p><p>she were a World Controller and he a Gamma-Minus machine minder. </p><p>"Consider your own lives," said Mustapha Mond. "Flas any of you ever </p><p>encountered an insurmountable obstacle?" </p><p>The question was answered by a negative silence. </p><p>"Has any of you been compelled to live through a long time-interval </p><p>between the consciousness of a desire and its fufilment?" </p><p>"Well," began one of the boys, and hesitated. </p><p>"Speak up," said the D.H.C. "Don't keep his fordship waiting." </p><p>"I once had to wait nearly four weeks before a girl I wanted would let </p><p>me have her." </p><p>"And you felt a strong emotion in consequence?" </p><p>"Horrible!" </p><p>"Horrible; precisely," said the Controller. "Our ancestors were so stupid </p><p>and short-sighted that when the first reformers came along and of- </p><p>fered to deliver them from those horrible emotions, they wouldn't have </p><p>anything to do with them." </p><p>"Talking about her as though she were a bit of meat." Bernard ground </p><p>his teeth. "Have her here, have her there." Like mutton. Degrading her </p><p>to so much mutton. She said she'd think it over, she said she'd give </p><p>me an answer this week. Oh, Ford, Ford, Ford." He would have liked to </p><p>go up to them and hit them in the face-hard, again and again. </p><p>"Yes, I really do advise you to try her," Henry Foster was saying. </p><p>"Take Ectogenesis. Pfitzner and Kawaguchi had got the whole tech- </p><p>nique worked out. But would the Governments look at it? No. There </p><p>was something called Christianity. Women were forced to go on being </p><p>viviparous." </p><p>"He's so ugly!" said Fanny. </p><p>"But I rather like his looks." </p><p>"And then so small." Fanny made a grimace; smallness was so horribly </p><p>and typically low-caste. </p><p>"I think that's rather sweet," said Lenina. "One feels one would like to </p><p>pet him. You know. Like a cat." </p><p>Fanny was shocked. "They say somebody made a mistake when he </p><p>was still in the bottle-thought he was a Gamma and put alcohol into </p><p>his blood-surrogate. That's why he's so stunted." </p><p>"What nonsense!" Lenina was indignant. </p><p>"Sleep teaching was actually prohibited in England. There was some- </p><p>thing called liberalism. Parliament, if you know what that was, passed </p><p>a law against it. The records survive. Speeches about liberty of the </p><p>subject. Liberty to be inefficient and miserable. Freedom to be a round </p><p>peg in a square hole." </p><p>"But, my dear chap, you're welcome, I assure you. You're welcome." </p><p>Henry Foster patted the Assistant Predestinator on the shoulder. </p><p>"Every one belongs to every one else, after all." </p><p>One hundred repetitions three nights a week for four years, thought </p><p>Bernard Marx, who was a specialist on hypnopaedia. Sixty-two thou- </p><p>sand four hundred repetitions make one truth. Idiots! </p><p>"Or the Caste System. Constantly proposed, constantly rejected. There </p><p>was something called democracy. As though men were more than </p><p>physico-chemically equal." </p><p>"Well, all I can say is that I'm going to accept his invitation." </p><p>Bernard hated them, hated them. But they were two, they were large, </p><p>they were strong. </p><p>"The Nine Years' War began in A.F. 141." </p><p>"Not even if it were true about the alcohol in his blood-surrogate." </p><p>"Phosgene, chloropicrin, ethyl iodoacetate, diphenylcyanarsine, tri- </p><p>chlormethyl, chloroformate, dichlorethyl sulphide. Not to mention hy- </p><p>drocyanic acid." </p><p>"Which I simply don't believe," Lenina concluded. </p><p>"The noise of fourteen thousand aeroplanes advancing in open order. </p><p>But in the Kurfurstendamm and the Eighth Arrondissement, the explo- </p><p>sion of the anthrax bombs is hardly louder than the popping of a paper </p><p>bag." </p><p>"Because I do want to see a Savage Reservation." </p><p>Ch3C6H2(N02)3+Hg(CN0)2=well, what? An enormous hole in the </p><p>ground, a pile of masonry, some bits of flesh and mucus, a foot, with </p><p>the boot still on it, flying through the air and landing, flop, in the mid- </p><p>dle of the geraniums-the scarlet ones; such a splendid show that </p><p>summer! </p><p>"You're hopeless, Lenina, I give you up." </p><p>"The Russian technique for infecting water supplies was particularly in- </p><p>genious." </p><p>Back turned to back, Fanny and Lenina continued their changing in si- </p><p>lence. </p><p>"The Nine Years' War, the great Economic Collapse. There was a choice </p><p>between World Control and destruction. Between stability and ..." </p><p>"Fanny Crowne's a nice girl too," said the Assistant Predestinator. </p><p>In the nurseries, the Elementary Class Consciousness lesson was over, </p><p>the voices were adapting future demand to future industrial supply. "I </p><p>do love flying," they whispered, "I do love flying, I do love having new </p><p>clothes, I do love ..." </p><p>"Liberalism, of course, was dead of anthrax, but all the same you </p><p>couldn't do things by force." </p><p>"Not nearly so pneumatic as Lenina. Oh, not nearly." </p><p>"But old clothes are beastly," continued the untiring whisper. "We al- </p><p>ways throw away old clothes. Ending is better than mending, ending is </p><p>better than mending, ending is better ..." </p><p>"Government's an affair of sitting, not hitting. You rule with the brains</p><p>and the buttocks, never with the fists. For example, there was the </p><p>conscription of consumption." </p><p>"There, I'm ready," said Lenina, but Fanny remained speechless and </p><p>averted. "Let's make peace, Fanny darling." </p><p>"Every man, woman and child compelled to consume so much a year. </p><p>In the interests of industry. The sole result ..." </p><p>"Ending is better than mending. The more stitches, the less riches; the </p><p>more stitches ..." </p><p>"One of these days," said Fanny, with dismal emphasis, "you'll get into </p><p>trouble." </p><p>"Conscientious objection on an enormous scale. Anything not to con- </p><p>sume. Back to nature." </p><p>"I do love flying. I do love flying." </p><p>"Back to culture. Yes, actually to culture. You can't consume much if </p><p>you sit still and read books." </p><p>"Do I look all right?" Lenina asked. Her jacket was made of bottle </p><p>green acetate cloth with green viscose fur; at the cuffs and collar. </p><p>"Eight hundred Simple Lifers were mowed down by machine guns at </p><p>Golders Green." </p><p>"Ending is better than mending, ending is better than mending." </p><p>Green corduroy shorts and white viscose-woollen stockings turned </p><p>down below the knee. </p><p>"Then came the famous British Museum Massacre. Two thousand cul- </p><p>ture fans gassed with dichlorethyl sulphide." </p><p>A green-and-white jockey cap shaded Lenina's eyes; her shoes were </p><p>bright green and highly polished. </p><p>"In the end," said Mustapha Mond, "the Controllers realized that force </p><p>was no good. The slower but infinitely surer methods of ectogenesis, </p><p>neo-Pavlovian conditioning and hypnopaedia ..." </p><p>And round her waist she wore a silver-mounted green morocco- </p><p>surrogate cartridge belt, bulging (for Lenina was not a freemartin) with </p><p>the regulation supply of contraceptives. </p><p>"The discoveries of Pfitzner and Kawaguchi were at last made use of. </p><p>An intensive propaganda against viviparous reproduction ..." </p><p>"Perfect!" cried Fanny enthusiastically. She could never resist Lenina's </p><p>charm for long. "And what a perfectly sweet Malthusian belt!" </p><p>"Accompanied by a campaign against the Past; by the closing of mu- </p><p>seums, the blowing up of historical monuments (luckily most of them </p><p>had already been destroyed during the Nine Years' War); by the sup- </p><p>pression of all books published before A.F. 150." </p><p>"I simply must get one like it," said Fanny. </p><p>"There were some things called the pyramids, for example. </p><p>"My old black-patent bandolier ..." </p><p>"And a man called Shakespeare. You've never heard of them of </p><p>course." </p><p>"It's an absolute disgrace-that bandolier of mine." </p><p>"Such are the advantages of a really scientific education." </p><p>"The more stitches the less riches; the more stitches the less ..." </p><p>"The introduction of Our Ford's first T-Model ..." </p><p>"I've had it nearly three months." </p><p>"Chosen as the opening date of the new era." </p><p>"Ending is better than mending; ending is better ..." </p><p>"There was a thing, as I've said before, called Christianity." </p><p>"Ending is better than mending." </p><p>"The ethics and philosophy of under-consumption ..." </p><p>"I love new clothes, I love new clothes, I love ..." </p><p>"So essential when there was under-production; but in an age of ma- </p><p>chines and the fixation of nitrogen-positively a crime against society." </p><p>"Flenry Foster gave it me." </p><p>"All crosses had their tops cut and became T's. There was also a thing </p><p>called God." </p><p>"It's real morocco-surrogate." </p><p>"We have the World State now. And Ford's Day celebrations, and </p><p>Community Sings, and Solidarity Services." </p><p>"Ford, how I hate them!" Bernard Marx was thinking. </p><p>"There was a thing called Fleaven; but all the same they used to drink </p><p>enormous quantities of alcohol." </p><p>"Like meat, like so much meat." </p><p>"There was a thing called the soul and a thing called immortality." </p><p>"Do ask Henry where he got it." </p><p>"But they used to take morphia and cocaine." </p><p>"And what makes it worse, she thinks of herself as meat." </p><p>"Two thousand pharmacologists and bio-chemists were subsidized in </p><p>A.P. 178." </p><p>"He does look glum," said the Assistant Predestinator, pointing at Ber- </p><p>nard Marx. </p><p>"Six years later it was being produced commercially. The perfect drug." </p><p>"Let's bait him." </p><p>"Euphoric, narcotic, pleasantly hallucinant." </p><p>"Glum, Marx, glum." The clap on the shoulder made him start, look up. </p><p>It was that brute Henry Foster. "What you need is a gramme of soma." </p><p>"All the advantages of Christianity and alcohol; none of their defects." </p><p>"Ford, I should like to kill him!" But all he did was to say, "No, thank </p><p>you," and fend off the proffered tube of tablets. </p><p>"Take a holiday from reality whenever you like, and come back without </p><p>so much as a headache or a mythology." </p><p>"Take it," insisted Henry Foster, "take it." </p><p>"Stability was practically assured." </p><p>"One cubic centimetre cures ten gloomy sentiments," said the Assis- </p><p>tant Predestinator citing a piece of homely hypnopaedic wisdom. </p><p>"It only remained to conquer old age." </p><p>"Damn you, damn you!" shouted Bernard Marx. </p><p>"Hoity-toity." </p><p>"Gonadal hormones, transfusion of young blood, magnesium salts ..." </p><p>"And do remember that a gramme is better than a damn." They went </p><p>out, laughing. </p><p>"All the physiological stigmata of old age have been abolished. And </p><p>along with them, of course ..." </p><p>"Don't forget to ask him about that Malthusian belt," said Fanny. </p><p>"Along with them all the old man's mental peculiarities. Characters </p><p>remain constant throughout a whole lifetime." </p><p>"... two rounds of Obstacle Golf to get through before dark. I must fly."</p><p>"Work, play-at sixty our powers and tastes are what they were at sev- </p><p>enteen. Old men in the bad old days used to renounce, retire, take to </p><p>religion, spend their time reading, thinking-thinking!" </p><p>"Idiots, swine!" Bernard Marx was saying to himself, as he walked </p><p>down the corridor to the lift. </p><p>"Now-such is progress-the old men work, the old men copulate, the </p><p>old men have no time, no leisure from pleasure, not a moment to sit </p><p>down and think-or if ever by some unlucky chance such a crevice of </p><p>time should yawn in the solid substance of their distractions, there is </p><p>always soma, delicious soma, half a gramme for a half-holiday, a </p><p>gramme for a week-end, two grammes for a trip to the gorgeous East, </p><p>three for a dark eternity on the moon; returning whence they find </p><p>themselves on the other side of the crevice, safe on the solid ground of </p><p>daily labour and distraction, scampering from feely to feely, from girl </p><p>to pneumatic girl, from Electromagnetic Golf course to ..." </p><p>"Go away, little girl," shouted the D.H.C. angrily. "Go away, little boy! </p><p>Can't you see that his fordship's busy? Go and do your erotic play </p><p>somewhere else." </p><p>"Suffer little children," said the Controller. </p><p>Slowly, majestically, with a faint humming of machinery, the Conveyors </p><p>moved forward, thirty-three centimters an hour. In the red darkness </p><p>glinted innumerable rubies. </p><p>THE LIFT was crowded with men from the Alpha Changing Rooms, and </p><p>Lenina's entry wars greeted by many friendly nods and smiles. She </p><p>was a popular girl and, at one time or another, had spent a night with </p><p>almost all of them. </p><p>They were dear boys, she thought, as she returned their salutations. </p><p>Charming boys! Still, she did wish that George Edzel's ears weren't </p><p>quite so big (perhaps he'd been given just a spot too much parathyroid </p><p>at Metre 328?). And looking at Benito Hoover, she couldn't help re- </p><p>membering that he was really too hairy when he took his clothes off. </p><p>Turning, with eyes a little saddened by the recollection, of Benito's </p><p>curly blackness, she saw in a corner the small thin body, the melan- </p><p>choly face of Bernard Marx. </p><p>"Bernard!" she stepped up to him. "I was looking for you." Her voice </p><p>rang clear above the hum of the mounting lift. The others looked </p><p>round curiously. "I wanted to talk to you about our New Mexico plan." </p><p>Out of the tail of her eye she could see Benito Hoover gaping with as- </p><p>tonishment. The gape annoyed her. "Surprised I shouldn't be begging </p><p>to go with him again!" she said to herself. Then aloud, and more </p><p>warmly than ever, "I'd simply love to come with you for a week in </p><p>July," she went on. (Anyhow, she was publicly proving her unfaithful- </p><p>ness to Henry. Fanny ought to be pleased, even though it was Ber- </p><p>nard.) "That is," Lenina gave him her most deliciously significant smile, </p><p>"if you still want to have me." </p><p>Bernard's pale face flushed. "What on earth for?" she wondered, as- </p><p>tonished, but at the same time touched by this strange tribute to her </p><p>power. </p><p>"Hadn't we better talk about it somewhere else?" he stammered, look- </p><p>ing horribly uncomfortable. </p><p>"As though I'd been saying something shocking," thought Lenina. "He </p><p>couldn't look more upset if I'd made a dirty joke-asked him who his </p><p>mother was, or something like that." </p><p>"I mean, with all these people about ..." He was choked with confusion. </p><p>Lenina's laugh was frank and wholly unmalicious. "How funny you </p><p>are!" she said; and she quite genuinely did think him funny. "You'll </p><p>give me at least a week's warning, won't you," she went on in another </p><p>tone. "I suppose we take the Blue Pacific Rocket? Does it start from </p><p>the Charing-T Tower? Or is it from Hampstead?" </p><p>Before Bernard could answer, the lift came to a standstill. </p><p>"Roof!" called a creaking voice. </p><p>The liftman was a small simian creature, dressed in the black tunic of </p><p>an Epsilon-Minus Semi-Moron. </p><p>"Roof!" </p><p>He flung open the gates. The warm glory of afternoon sunlight made </p><p>him start and blink his eyes. "Oh, roof!" he repeated in a voice of rap- </p><p>ture. He was as though suddenly and joyfully awakened from a dark </p><p>annihilating stupor. "Roof!" </p><p>He smiled up with a kind of doggily expectant adoration into the faces </p><p>of his passengers. Talking and laughing together, they stepped out into </p><p>the light. The liftman looked after them. </p><p>"Roof?" he said once more, questioningly. </p><p>Then a bell rang, and from the ceiling of the lift a loud speaker began, </p><p>very softly and yet very imperiously, to issue its commands. </p><p>"Go down," it said, "go down. Floor Eighteen. Go down, go down. Floor </p><p>Eighteen. Go down, go ..." </p><p>The liftman slammed the gates, touched a button and instantly </p><p>dropped back into the droning twilight of the well, the twilight of his </p><p>own habitual stupor. </p><p>It was warm and bright on the roof. The summer afternoon was </p><p>drowsy with the hum of passing helicopters; and the deeper drone of </p><p>the rocket-planes hastening, invisible, through the bright sky five or</p><p>six miles overhead was like a caress on the soft air. Bernard Marx drew </p><p>a deep breath. He looked up into the sky and round the blue horizon </p><p>and finally down into Lenina's face. </p><p>"Isn't it beautiful!" His voice trembled a little. </p><p>She smiled at him with an expression of the most sympathetic under- </p><p>standing. "Simply perfect for Obstacle Golf," she answered rapturously. </p><p>"And now I must fly, Bernard. Henry gets cross if I keep him waiting. </p><p>Let me know in good time about the date." And waving her hand she </p><p>ran away across the wide flat roof towards the hangars. Bernard stood </p><p>watching the retreating twinkle of the white stockings, the sunburnt </p><p>knees vivaciously bending and unbending again, again, and the softer </p><p>rolling of those well-fitted corduroy shorts beneath the bottle green </p><p>jacket. His face wore an expression of pain. </p><p>"I should say she was pretty," said a loud and cheery voice just behind </p><p>him. </p><p>Bernard started and looked around. The chubby red face of Benito </p><p>Hoover was beaming down at him-beaming with manifest cordiality. </p><p>Benito was notoriously good-natured. People said of him that he could </p><p>have got through life without ever touching soma. The malice and bad </p><p>tempers from which other people had to take holidays never afflicted </p><p>him. Reality for Benito was always sunny. </p><p>"Pneumatic too. And how!" Then, in another tone: "But, I say," he </p><p>went on, "you do look glum! What you need is a gramme of soma." </p><p>Diving into his right-hand trouser-pocket, Benito produced a phial. </p><p>"One cubic centimetre cures ten gloomy ... But, I say!" </p><p>Bernard had suddenly turned and rushed away. </p><p>Benito stared after him. "What can be the matter with the fellow?" he </p><p>wondered, and, shaking his head, decided that the story about the al- </p><p>cohol having been put into the poor chap's blood-surrogate must be </p><p>true. "Touched his brain, I suppose." </p><p>He put away the soma bottle, and taking out a packet of sex-hormone </p><p>chewing-gum, stuffed a plug into his cheek and walked slowly away </p><p>towards the hangars, ruminating. </p><p>Henry Foster had had his machine wheeled out of its lock-up and, </p><p>when Lenina arrived, was already seated in the cockpit, waiting. </p><p>"Four minutes late," was all his comment, as she climbed in beside </p><p>him. He started the engines and threw the helicopter screws into gear. </p><p>The machine shot vertically into the air. Henry accelerated; the hum- </p><p>ming of the propeller shrilled from hornet to wasp, from wasp to mos- </p><p>quito; the speedometer showed that they were rising at the best part </p><p>of two kilometres a minute. London diminished beneath them. The </p><p>huge table-topped buildings were no more, in a few seconds, than a </p><p>bed of geometrical mushrooms sprouting from the green of park and </p><p>garden. In the midst of them, thin-stalked, a taller, slenderer fungus, </p><p>the Charing-T Tower lifted towards the sky a disk of shining concrete. </p><p>Like the vague torsos of fabulous athletes, huge fleshy clouds lolled on</p><p>the blue air above their heads. Out of one of them suddenly dropped a </p><p>small scarlet insect, buzzing as it fell. </p><p>"There's the Red Rocket," said Henry, "just come in from New York." </p><p>Looking at his watch. "Seven minutes behind time," he added, and </p><p>shook his head. "These Atlantic services-they're really scandalously </p><p>unpunctual." </p><p>He took his foot off the accelerator. The humming of the screws over- </p><p>head dropped an octave and a half, back through wasp and hornet to </p><p>bumble bee, to cockchafer, to stag-beetle. The upward rush of the ma- </p><p>chine slackened off; a moment later they were hanging motionless in </p><p>the air. Henry pushed at a lever; there was a click. Slowly at first, then </p><p>faster and faster, till it was a circular mist before their eyes, the pro- </p><p>peller in front of them began to revolve. The wind of a horizontal </p><p>speed whistled ever more shrilly in the stays. Henry kept his eye on </p><p>the revolution-counter; when the needle touched the twelve hundred </p><p>mark, he threw the helicopter screws out of gear. The machine had </p><p>enough forward momentum to be able to fly on its planes. </p><p>Lenina looked down through the window in the floor between her feet. </p><p>They were flying over the six kilometre zone of park-land that sepa- </p><p>rated Central London from its first ring of satellite suburbs. The green </p><p>was maggoty with fore-shortened life. Forests of Centrifugal Bumble- </p><p>puppy towers gleamed between the trees. Near Shepherd's Bush two </p><p>thousand Beta-Minus mixed doubles were playing Riemann-surface </p><p>tennis. A double row of Escalator Fives Courts lined the main road </p><p>from Notting Hill to Willesden. In the Ealing stadium a Delta gymnastic </p><p>display and community sing was in progress. </p><p>"What a hideous colour khaki is," remarked Lenina, voicing the hyp- </p><p>nopaedic prejudices of her caste. </p><p>The buildings of the Hounslow Feely Studio covered seven and a half </p><p>hectares. Near them a black and khaki army of labourers was busy re- </p><p>vitrifying the surface of the Great West Road. One of the huge travel- </p><p>ling crucibles was being tapped as they flew over. The molten stone </p><p>poured out in a stream of dazzling incandescence across the road, the </p><p>asbestos rollers came and went; at the tail of an insulated watering </p><p>cart the steam rose in white clouds. </p><p>At Brentford the Television Corporation's factory was like a small town. </p><p>"They must be changing the shift," said Lenina. </p><p>Like aphides and ants, the leaf-green Gamma girls, the black Semi- </p><p>Morons swarmed round the entrances, or stood in queues to take their </p><p>places in the monorail tram-cars. Mulberry-coloured Beta-Minuses </p><p>came and went among the crowd. The roof of the main building was </p><p>alive with the alighting and departure of helicopters. </p><p>"My word," said Lenina, "I'm glad I'm not a Gamma." </p><p>Ten minutes later they were at Stoke Poges and had started their first </p><p>round of Obstacle Golf. </p><p>§ 2 </p><p>WITH eyes for the most part downcast and, if ever they lighted on a </p><p>fellow creature, at once and furtively averted, Bernard hastened across </p><p>the roof. He was like a man pursued, but pursued by enemies he does </p><p>not wish to see, lest they should seem more hostile even than he had </p><p>supposed, and he himself be made to feel guiltier and even more help- </p><p>lessly alone. </p><p>"That horrible Benito Hoover!" And yet the man had meant well </p><p>enough. Which only made it, in a way, much worse. Those who meant </p><p>well behaved in the same way as those who meant badly. Even Lenina </p><p>was making him suffer. He remembered those weeks of timid indeci- </p><p>sion, during which he had looked and longed and despaired of ever </p><p>having the courage to ask her. Dared he face the risk of being humili- </p><p>ated by a contemptuous refusal? But if she were to say yes, what rap- </p><p>ture! Well, now she had said it and he was still wretched-wretched </p><p>that she should have thought it such a perfect afternoon for Obstacle </p><p>Golf, that she should have trotted away to join Henry Foster, that she </p><p>should have found him funny for not wanting to talk of their most pri- </p><p>vate affairs in public. Wretched, in a word, because she had behaved </p><p>as any healthy and virtuous English girl ought to behave and not in </p><p>some other, abnormal, extraordinary way. </p><p>He opened the door of his lock-up and called to a lounging couple of </p><p>Delta-Minus attendants to come and push his machine out on to the </p><p>roof. The hangars were staffed by a single Bokanovsky Group, and the </p><p>men were twins, identically small, black and hideous. Bernard gave his </p><p>orders in the sharp, rather arrogant and even offensive tone of one </p><p>who does not feel himself too secure in his superiority. To have deal- </p><p>ings with members of the lower castes was always, for Bernard, a </p><p>most distressing experience. For whatever the cause (and the current </p><p>gossip about the alcohol in his blood-surrogate may very likely-for ac- </p><p>cidents will happen-have been true) Bernard's physique as hardly bet- </p><p>ter than that of the average Gamma. He stood eight centimetres short </p><p>of the standard Alpha height and was slender in proportion. Contact </p><p>with members of he lower castes always reminded him painfully of this </p><p>physical inadequacy. "I am I, and wish I wasn't"; his self- </p><p>consciousness was acute and stressing. Each time he found himself </p><p>looking on the level, instead of downward, into a Delta's face, he felt </p><p>humiliated. Would the creature treat him with the respect due to his </p><p>caste? The question haunted him. Not without reason. For Gammas, </p><p>Deltas and Epsilons had been to some extent conditioned to associate </p><p>corporeal mass with social superiority. Indeed, a faint hypnopaedic </p><p>prejudice in favour of size was universal. Hence the laughter of the </p><p>women to whom he made proposals, the practical joking of his equals </p><p>among the men. The mockery made him feel an outsider; and feeling </p><p>an outsider he behaved like one, which increased the prejudice against </p><p>him and intensified the contempt and hostility aroused by his physical </p><p>defects. Which in turn increased his sense of being alien and alone. A </p><p>chronic fear of being slighted made him avoid his equals, made him </p><p>stand, where his inferiors were concerned, self-consciously on his dig-</p><p>nity. How bitterly he envied men like Henry Foster and Benito Hoover! </p><p>Men who never had to shout at an Epsilon to get an order obeyed; </p><p>men who took their position for granted; men who moved through the </p><p>caste system as a fish through water-so utterly at home as to be un- </p><p>aware either of themselves or of the beneficent and comfortable ele- </p><p>ment in which they had their being. </p><p>Slackly, it seemed to him, and with reluctance, the twin attendants </p><p>wheeled his plane out on the roof. </p><p>"Hurry up!" said Bernard irritably. One of them glanced at him. Was </p><p>that a kind of bestial derision that he detected in those blank grey </p><p>eyes? "Hurry up!" he shouted more loudly, and there was an ugly rasp </p><p>in his voice. </p><p>He climbed into the plane and, a minute later, was flying southwards, </p><p>towards the river. </p><p>The various Bureaux of Propaganda and the College of Emotional Engi- </p><p>neering were housed in a single sixty-story building in Fleet Street. In </p><p>the basement and on the low floors were the presses and offices of the </p><p>three great London newspapers-77?e Hourly Radio, an upper-caste </p><p>sheet, the pale green Gamma Gazette, and, on khaki paper and in </p><p>words exclusively of one syllable, The Delta Mirror. Then came the Bu- </p><p>reaux of Propaganda by Television, by Feeling Picture, and by Syn- </p><p>thetic Voice and Music respectively-twenty-two floors of them. Above </p><p>were the search laboratories and the padded rooms in which Sound- </p><p>Track Writers and Synthetic Composers did the delicate work. The top </p><p>eighteen floors were occupied the College of Emotional Engineering. </p><p>Bernard landed on the roof of Propaganda House and stepped out. </p><p>"Ring down to Mr. Helmholtz Watson," he ordered the Gamma-Plus </p><p>porter, "and tell him that Mr. Bernard Marx is waiting for him on the </p><p>roof." </p><p>He sat down and lit a cigarette. </p><p>Helmholtz Watson was writing when the message came down. </p><p>"Tell him I'm coming at once," he said and hung up the receiver. Then, </p><p>turning to his secretary, "I'll leave you to put my things away," he went </p><p>on in the same official and impersonal tone; and, ignoring her lustrous </p><p>smile, got up and walked briskly to the door. </p><p>He was a powerfully built man, deep-chested, broad-shouldered, mas- </p><p>sive, and yet quick in his movements, springy and agile. The round </p><p>strong pillar of his neck supported a beautifully shaped head. His hair </p><p>was dark and curly, his features strongly marked. In a forcible em- </p><p>phatic way, he was handsome and looked, as his secretary was never </p><p>tired of repeating, every centimetre an Alpha Plus. By profession he </p><p>was a lecturer at the College of Emotional Engineering (Department of </p><p>Writing) and the intervals of his educational activities, a working Emo- </p><p>tional Engineer. He wrote regularly for The Hourly Radio, composed </p><p>feely scenarios, and had the happiest knack for slogans and hyp- </p><p>nopaedic rhymes.</p><p>"Able," was the verdict of his superiors. "Perhaps, (and they would </p><p>shake their heads, would significantly lower their voices) "a little too </p><p>able." </p><p>Yes, a little too able; they were right. A mental excess had produced in </p><p>Helmholtz Watson effects very similar to those which, in Bernard Marx, </p><p>were the result of a physical defect. Too little bone and brawn had iso- </p><p>lated Bernard from his fellow men, and the sense of this apartness, </p><p>being, by all the current standards, a mental excess, became in its </p><p>turn a cause of wider separation. That which had made Helmholtz so </p><p>uncomfortably aware of being himself and all alone was too much abil- </p><p>ity. What the two men shared was the knowledge that they were indi- </p><p>viduals. But whereas the physically defective Bernard had suffered all </p><p>his life from the consciousness of being separate, it was only quite re- </p><p>cently that, grown aware of his mental excess, Helmholtz Watson had </p><p>also become aware of his difference from the people who surrounded </p><p>him. This Escalator-Squash champion, this indefatigable lover (it was </p><p>said that he had had six hundred and forty different girls in under four </p><p>years), this admirable committee man and best mixer had realized </p><p>quite suddenly that sport, women, communal activities were only, so </p><p>far as he was concerned, second bests. Really, and at the bottom, he </p><p>was interested in something else. But in what? In what? That was the </p><p>problem which Bernard had come to discuss with him-or rather, since </p><p>it was always Helmholtz who did all the talking, to listen to his friend </p><p>discussing, yet once more. </p><p>Three charming girls from the Bureau of Propaganda by Synthetic </p><p>Voice waylaid him as he stepped out of the lift. </p><p>"Oh, Helmholtz, darling, do come and have a picnic supper with us on </p><p>Exmoor." They clung round him imploringly. </p><p>He shook his head, he pushed his way through them. "No, no." </p><p>"We're not inviting any other man." </p><p>But Helmholtz remained unshaken even by this delightful promise. </p><p>"No," he repeated, "I'm busy." And he held resolutely on his course. </p><p>The girls trailed after him. It was not till he had actually climbed into </p><p>Bernard's plane and slammed the door that they gave up pursuit. Not </p><p>without reproaches. </p><p>"These women!" he said, as the machine rose into the air. "These </p><p>women!" And he shook his head, he frowned. "Too awful," Bernard </p><p>hypocritically agreed, wishing, as he spoke the words, that he could </p><p>have as many girls as Helmholtz did, and with as little trouble. He was </p><p>seized with a sudden urgent need to boast. "I'm taking Lenina Crowne </p><p>to New Mexico with me," he said in a tone as casual as he could make </p><p>it. </p><p>"Are you?" said Helmholtz, with a total absence of interest. Then after </p><p>a little pause, "This last week or two," he went on, "I've been cutting </p><p>all my committees and all my girls. You can't imagine what a hullaba- </p><p>loo they've been making about it at the College. Still, it's been worth </p><p>it, I think. The effects ..." He hesitated. "Well, they're odd, they're very </p><p>odd." </p><p>A physical shortcoming could produce a kind of mental excess. The </p><p>process, it seemed, was reversible. Mental excess could produce, for </p><p>its own purposes, the voluntary blindness and deafness of deliberate </p><p>solitude, the artificial impotence of asceticism. </p><p>The rest of the short flight was accomplished in silence. When they </p><p>had arrived and were comfortably stretched out on the pneumatic so- </p><p>fas in Bernard's room, Helmholtz began again. </p><p>Speaking very slowly, "Did you ever feel," he asked, "as though you </p><p>had something inside you that was only waiting for you to give it a </p><p>chance to come out? Some sort of extra power that you aren't us- </p><p>ing-you know, like all the water that goes down the falls instead of </p><p>through the turbines?" He looked at Bernard questioningly. </p><p>"You mean all the emotions one might be feeling if things were differ- </p><p>ent?" </p><p>Helmholtz shook his head. "Not quite. I'm thinking of a queer feeling I </p><p>sometimes get, a feeling that I've got something important to say and </p><p>the power to say it-only I don't know what it is, and I can't make any </p><p>use of the power. If there was some different way of writing ... Or else </p><p>something else to write about ..." He was silent; then, "You see," he </p><p>went on at last, "I'm pretty good at inventing phrases-you know, the </p><p>sort of words that suddenly make you jump, almost as though you'd </p><p>sat on a pin, they seem so new and exciting even though they're about </p><p>something hypnopaedically obvious. But that doesn't seem enough. It's </p><p>not enough for the phrases to be good; what you make with them </p><p>ought to be good too." </p><p>"But your things are good, Helmholtz." </p><p>"Oh, as far as they go." Helmholtz shrugged his shoulders. "But they </p><p>go such a little way. They aren't important enough, somehow. I feel I </p><p>could do something much more important. Yes, and more intense, </p><p>more violent. But what? What is there more important to say? And </p><p>how can one be violent about the sort of things one's expected to write </p><p>about? Words can be like X-rays, if you use them properly-they'll go </p><p>through anything. You read and you're pierced. That's one of the </p><p>things I try to teach my students-how to write piercingly. But what on </p><p>earth's the good of being pierced by an article about a Community </p><p>Sing, or the latest improvement in scent organs? Besides, can you </p><p>make words really piercing-you know, like the very hardest X- </p><p>rays-when you're writing about that sort of thing? Can you say some- </p><p>thing about nothing? That's what it finally boils down to. I try and I try </p><p>"Hush!" said Bernard suddenly, and lifted a warning finger; they lis- </p><p>tened. "I believe there's somebody at the door," he whispered. </p><p>Helmholtz got up, tiptoed across the room, and with a sharp quick</p><p>movement flung the door wide open. There was, of course, nobody </p><p>there. </p><p>"I'm sorry," said Bernard, feeling and looking uncomfortably foolish. "I </p><p>suppose I've got things on my nerves a bit. When people are suspi- </p><p>cious with you, you start being suspicious with them." </p><p>He passed his hand across his eyes, he sighed, his voice became plain- </p><p>tive. He was justifying himself. "If you knew what I'd had to put up </p><p>with recently," he said almost tearfully-and the uprush of his self-pity </p><p>was like a fountain suddenly released. "If you only knew!" </p><p>Helmholtz Watson listened with a certain sense of discomfort. "Poor lit- </p><p>tle Bernard!" he said to himself. But at the same time he felt rather </p><p>ashamed for his friend. He wished Bernard would show a little more </p><p>pride. </p><p>By EIGHT O'CLOCK the light was failing. The loud speaker in the tower </p><p>of the Stoke Poges Club House began, in a more than human tenor, to </p><p>announce the closing of the courses. Lenina and Henry abandoned </p><p>their game and walked back towards the Club. From the grounds of </p><p>the Internal and External Secretion Trust came the lowing of those </p><p>thousands of cattle which provided, with their hormones and their </p><p>milk, the raw materials for the great factory at Farnham Royal. </p><p>An incessant buzzing of helicopters filled the twilight. Every two and a </p><p>half minutes a bell and the screech of whistles announced the depar- </p><p>ture of one of the light monorail trains which carried the lower caste </p><p>golfers back from their separate course to the metropolis. </p><p>Lenina and Henry climbed into their machine and started off. At eight </p><p>hundred feet Henry slowed down the helicopter screws, and they hung </p><p>for a minute or two poised above the fading landscape. The forest of </p><p>Burnham Beeches stretched like a great pool of darkness towards the </p><p>bright shore of the western sky. Crimson at the horizon, the last of the </p><p>sunset faded, through orange, upwards into yellow and a pale watery </p><p>green. Northwards, beyond and above the trees, the Internal and Ex- </p><p>ternal Secretions factory glared with a fierce electric brilliance from </p><p>every window of its twenty stories. Beneath them lay the buildings of </p><p>the Golf Club-the huge Lower Caste barracks and, on the other side of </p><p>a dividing wall, the smaller houses reserved for Alpha and Beta mem- </p><p>bers. The approaches to the monorail station were black with the ant- </p><p>like pullulation of lower-caste activity. From under the glass vault a </p><p>lighted train shot out into the open. Following its southeasterly course </p><p>across the dark plain their eyes were drawn to the majestic buildings </p><p>of the Slough Crematorium. For the safety of night-flying planes, its </p><p>four tall chimneys were flood-lighted and tipped with crimson danger </p><p>signals. It was a landmark. </p><p>"Why do the smoke-stacks have those things like balconies around </p><p>them?" enquired Lenina. </p><p>"Phosphorus recovery," explained Henry telegraphically. "On their way </p><p>up the chimney the gases go through four separate treatments. P 2 0 5</p><p>used to go right out of circulation every time they cremated some one. </p><p>Now they recover over ninety-eight per cent of it. More than a kilo and </p><p>a half per adult corpse. Which makes the best part of four hundred </p><p>tons of phosphorus every year from England alone." Henry spoke with </p><p>a happy pride, rejoicing whole-heartedly in the achievement, as </p><p>though it had been his own. "Fine to think we can go on being socially </p><p>useful even after we're dead. Making plants grow." </p><p>Lenina, meanwhile, had turned her eyes away and was looking per- </p><p>pendicularly downwards at the monorail station. "Fine," she agreed. </p><p>"But queer that Alphas and Betas won't make any more plants grow </p><p>than those nasty little Gammas and Deltas and Epsilons down there." </p><p>"All men are physico-chemically equal," said Henry sententiously. "Be- </p><p>sides, even Epsilons perform indispensable services." </p><p>"Even an Epsilon ..." Lenina suddenly remembered an occasion when, </p><p>as a little girl at school, she had woken up in the middle of the night </p><p>and become aware, for the first time, of the whispering that had </p><p>haunted all her sleeps. She saw again the beam of moonlight, the row </p><p>of small white beds; heard once more the soft, soft voice that said (the </p><p>words were there, unforgotten, unforgettable after so many night-long </p><p>repetitions): "Every one works for every one else. We can't do without </p><p>any one. Even Epsilons are useful. We couldn't do without Epsilons. </p><p>Every one works for every one else. We can't do without any one ..." </p><p>Lenina remembered her first shock of fear and surprise; her specula- </p><p>tions through half a wakeful hour; and then, under the influence of </p><p>those endless repetitions, the gradual soothing of her mind, the sooth- </p><p>ing, the smoothing, the stealthy creeping of sleep. ... </p><p>"I suppose Epsilons don't really mind being Epsilons," she said aloud. </p><p>"Of course they don't. How can they? They don't know what it's like </p><p>being anything else. We'd mind, of course. But then we've been differ- </p><p>ently conditioned. Besides, we start with a different heredity." </p><p>"I'm glad I'm not an Epsilon," said Lenina, with conviction. </p><p>"And if you were an Epsilon," said Henry, "your conditioning would </p><p>have made you no less thankful that you weren't a Beta or an Alpha." </p><p>He put his forward propeller into gear and headed the machine to- </p><p>wards London. Behind them, in the west, the crimson and orange were </p><p>almost faded; a dark bank of cloud had crept into the zenith. As they </p><p>flew over the crematorium, the plane shot upwards on the column of </p><p>hot air rising from the chimneys, only to fall as suddenly when it </p><p>passed into the descending chill beyond. </p><p>"What a marvellous switchback!" Lenina laughed delightedly. </p><p>But Henry's tone was almost, for a moment, melancholy. "Do you </p><p>know what that switchback was?" he said. "It was some human being </p><p>finally and definitely disappearing. Going up in a squirt of hot gas. It </p><p>would be curious to know who it was-a man or a woman, an Alpha or </p><p>an Epsilon. ..." He sighed. Then, in a resolutely cheerful voice, "Any- </p><p>how," he concluded, "there's one thing we can be certain of; whoever </p><p>he may have been, he was happy when he was alive. Everybody's</p><p>happy now." </p><p>"Yes, everybody's happy now," echoed Lenina. They had heard the </p><p>words repeated a hundred and fifty times every night for twelve years. </p><p>Landing on the roof of Henry's forty-story apartment house in West- </p><p>minster, they went straight down to the dining-hall. There, in a loud </p><p>and cheerful company, they ate an excellent meal. Soma was served </p><p>with the coffee. Lenina took two half-gramme tablets and Henry three. </p><p>At twenty past nine they walked across the street to the newly opened </p><p>Westminster Abbey Cabaret. It was a night almost without clouds, </p><p>moonless and starry; but of this on the whole depressing fact Lenina </p><p>and Henry were fortunately unaware. The electric sky-signs effectively </p><p>shut off the outer darkness. "CALVIN STOPES AND HIS SIXTEEN </p><p>SEXOPHONISTS." From the fagade of the new Abbey the giant letters </p><p>invitingly glared. "LONDON'S FINEST SCENT AND COLOUR ORGAN. </p><p>ALL THE LATEST SYNTHETIC MUSIC." </p><p>They entered. The air seemed hot and somehow breathless with the </p><p>scent of ambergris and sandalwood. On the domed ceiling of the hall, </p><p>the colour organ had momentarily painted a tropical sunset. The Six- </p><p>teen Sexophonists were playing an old favourite: "There ain't no Bottle </p><p>in all the world like that dear little Bottle of mine." Four hundred cou- </p><p>ples were five-stepping round the polished floor. Lenina and Henry </p><p>were soon the four hundred and first. The saxophones wailed like me- </p><p>lodious cats under the moon, moaned in the alto and tenor registers as </p><p>though the little death were upon them. Rich with a wealth of harmon- </p><p>ics, their tremulous chorus mounted towards a climax, louder and ever </p><p>louder-until at last, with a wave of his hand, the conductor let loose </p><p>the final shattering note of ether-music and blew the sixteen merely </p><p>human blowers clean out of existence. Thunder in A flat major. And </p><p>then, in all but silence, in all but darkness, there followed a gradual </p><p>deturgescence, a diminuendo sliding gradually, through quarter tones, </p><p>down, down to a faintly whispered dominant chord that lingered on </p><p>(while the five-four rhythms still pulsed below) charging the darkened </p><p>seconds with an intense expectancy. And at last expectancy was ful- </p><p>filled. There was a sudden explosive sunrise, and simultaneously, the </p><p>Sixteen burst into song: </p><p>"Bottle of mine , it's you I've always wanted! </p><p>Bottle of mine , why was I ever decanted ? </p><p>Skies are blue inside of you ; </p><p>The weather's always fine; </p><p>For </p><p>There ain't no Bottle in all the world </p><p>Like that dear little Bottle of mine. " </p><p>Five-stepping with the other four hundred round and round Westmin- </p><p>ster Abbey, Lenina and Henry were yet dancing in another world-the </p><p>warm, the richly coloured, the infinitely friendly world of soma-holiday.</p><p>How kind, how good-looking, how delightfully amusing every one was! </p><p>"Bottle of mine, it's you I've always wanted ..." But Lenina and Henry </p><p>had what they wanted ... They were inside, here and now-safely inside </p><p>with the fine weather, the perennially blue sky. And when, exhausted, </p><p>the Sixteen had laid by their saxophones and the Synthetic Music ap- </p><p>paratus was producing the very latest in slow Malthusian Blues, they </p><p>might have been twin embryos gently rocking together on the waves </p><p>of a bottled ocean of blood-surrogate. </p><p>"Good-night, dear friends. Good-night, dear friends." The loud speak- </p><p>ers veiled their commands in a genial and musical politeness. "Good- </p><p>night, dear friends ..." </p><p>Obediently, with all the others, Lenina and Henry left the building. The </p><p>depressing stars had travelled quite some way across the heavens. But </p><p>though the separating screen of the sky-signs had now to a great ex- </p><p>tent dissolved, the two young people still retained their happy igno- </p><p>rance of the night. </p><p>Swallowing half an hour before closing time, that second dose of soma </p><p>had raised a quite impenetrable wall between the actual universe and </p><p>their minds. Bottled, they crossed the street; bottled, they took the lift </p><p>up to Henry's room on the twenty-eighth floor. And yet, bottled as she </p><p>was, and in spite of that second gramme of soma, Lenina did not for- </p><p>get to take all the contraceptive precautions prescribed by the regula- </p><p>tions. Years of intensive hypnopaedia and, from twelve to seventeen, </p><p>Malthusian drill three times a week had made the taking of these pre- </p><p>cautions almost as automatic and inevitable as blinking. </p><p>"Oh, and that reminds me," she said, as she came back from the bath- </p><p>room, "Fanny Crowne wants to know where you found that lovely </p><p>green morocco-surrogate cartridge belt you gave me." </p><p>§ 2 </p><p>ALTERNATE Thursdays were Bernard's Solidarity Service days. After an </p><p>early dinner at the Aphroditzeum (to which Helmholtz had recently </p><p>been elected under Rule Two) he took leave of his friend and, hailing a </p><p>taxi on the roof told the man to fly to the Fordson Community Singery. </p><p>The machine rose a couple of hundred metres, then headed eastwards, </p><p>and as it turned, there before Bernard's eyes, gigantically beautiful, </p><p>was the Singery. Flood-lighted, its three hundred and twenty metres of </p><p>white Carrara-surrogate gleamed with a snowy incandescence over </p><p>Ludgate Hill; at each of the four corners of its helicopter platform an </p><p>immense T shone crimson against the night, and from the mouths of </p><p>twenty-four vast golden trumpets rumbled a solemn synthetic music. </p><p>"Damn, I'm late," Bernard said to himself as he first caught sight of </p><p>Big Henry, the Singery clock. And sure enough, as he was paying off </p><p>his cab, Big Henry sounded the hour. "Ford," sang out an immense </p><p>bass voice from all the golden trumpets. "Ford, Ford, Ford ..." Nine </p><p>times. Bernard ran for the lift. </p><p>The great auditorium for Ford's Day celebrations and other massed </p><p>Community Sings was at the bottom of the building. Above it, a hun- </p><p>dred to each floor, were the seven thousand rooms used by Solidarity </p><p>Groups for their fortnight services. Bernard dropped down to floor </p><p>thirty-three, hurried along the corridor, stood hesitating for a moment </p><p>outside Room 3210, then, having wound himself up, opened the door </p><p>and walked in. </p><p>Thank Ford! he was not the last. Three chairs of the twelve arranged </p><p>round the circular table were still unoccupied. He slipped into the </p><p>nearest of them as inconspicuously as he could and prepared to frown </p><p>at the yet later comers whenever they should arrive. </p><p>Turning towards him, "What were you playing this afternoon?" the girl </p><p>on his left enquired. "Obstacle, or Electro-magnetic?" </p><p>Bernard looked at her (Ford! it was Morgana Rothschild) and blushingly </p><p>had to admit that he had been playing neither. Morgana stared at him </p><p>with astonishment. There was an awkward silence. </p><p>Then pointedly she turned away and addressed herself to the more </p><p>sporting man on her left. </p><p>"A good beginning for a Solidarity Service," thought Bernard miserably, </p><p>and foresaw for himself yet another failure to achieve atonement. If </p><p>only he had given himself time to look around instead of scuttling for </p><p>the nearest chair! He could have sat between Fifi Bradlaugh and Jo- </p><p>anna Diesel. Instead of which he had gone and blindly planted himself </p><p>next to Morgana. Morgana! Ford! Those black eyebrows of hers-that </p><p>eyebrow, rather-for they met above the nose. Ford! And on his right </p><p>was Clara Deterding. True, Clara's eyebrows didn't meet. But she was </p><p>really too pneumatic. Whereas Fifi and Joanna were absolutely right. </p><p>Plump, blonde, not too large ... And it was that great lout, Tom Kawa- </p><p>guchi, who now took the seat between them. </p><p>The last arrival was Sarojini Engels. </p><p>"You're late," said the President of the Group severely. "Don't let it </p><p>happen again." </p><p>Sarojini apologized and slid into her place between Jim Bokanovsky </p><p>and Herbert Bakunin. The group was now complete, the solidarity cir- </p><p>cle perfect and without flaw. Man, woman, man, in a ring of endless </p><p>alternation round the table. Twelve of them ready to be made one, </p><p>waiting to come together, to be fused, to lose their twelve separate </p><p>identities in a larger being. </p><p>The President stood up, made the sign of the T and, switching on the </p><p>synthetic music, let loose the soft indefatigable beating of drums and a </p><p>choir of instruments-near-wind and super-string-that plangently re- </p><p>peated and repeated the brief and unescapably haunting melody of the </p><p>first Solidarity Hymn. Again, again-and it was not the ear that heard </p><p>the pulsing rhythm, it was the midriff; the wail and clang of those re- </p><p>curring harmonies haunted, not the mind, but the yearning bowels of </p><p>compassion.</p><p>The President made another sign of the T and sat down. The service </p><p>had begun. The dedicated soma tablets were placed in the centre of </p><p>the table. The loving cup of strawberry ice-cream soma was passed </p><p>from hand to hand and, with the formula, "I drink to my annihilation," </p><p>twelve times quaffed. Then to the accompaniment of the synthetic or- </p><p>chestra the First Solidarity Hymn was sung. </p><p>" Ford ', we are twelve; oh ; make us one, </p><p>Like drops within the Social River, </p><p>Oh, make us now together run </p><p>As swiftly as thy shining Flivver. " </p><p>Twelve yearning stanzas. And then the loving cup was passed a second </p><p>time. "I drink to the Greater Being" was now the formula. All drank. </p><p>Tirelessly the music played. The drums beat. The crying and clashing </p><p>of the harmonies were an obsession in the melted bowels. The Second </p><p>Solidarity Hymn was sung. </p><p>"Come, Greater Being, Social Friend, </p><p>Annihilating Twelve-in-One! </p><p>l/l/e long to die, for when we end, </p><p>Our larger life has but begun. " </p><p>Again twelve stanzas. By this time the soma had begun to work. Eyes </p><p>shone, cheeks were flushed, the inner light of universal benevolence </p><p>broke out on every face in happy, friendly smiles. Even Bernard felt </p><p>himself a little melted. When Morgana Rothschild turned and beamed </p><p>at him, he did his best to beam back. But the eyebrow, that black two- </p><p>in-one-alas, it was still there; he couldn't ignore it, couldn't, however </p><p>hard he tried. The melting hadn't gone far enough. Perhaps if he had </p><p>been sitting between Fifi and Joanna ... For the third time the loving </p><p>cup went round; "I drink to the imminence of His Coming," said Mor- </p><p>gana Rothschild, whose turn it happened to be to initiate the circular </p><p>rite. Her tone was loud, exultant. She drank and passed the cup to </p><p>Bernard. "I drink to the imminence of His Coming," he repeated, with </p><p>a sincere attempt to feel that the coming was imminent; but the eye- </p><p>brow continued to haunt him, and the Coming, so far as he was con- </p><p>cerned, was horribly remote. He drank and handed the cup to Clara </p><p>Deterding. "It'll be a failure again," he said to himself. "I know it will." </p><p>But he went on doing his best to beam. </p><p>The loving cup had made its circuit. Lifting his hand, the President </p><p>gave a signal; the chorus broke out into the third Solidarity Hymn. </p><p>"Feel how the Greater Being comes! </p><p>Rejoice and, in rejoicings, die! </p><p>Melt in the music of the drums! </p><p>For I am you and you are I. " </p><p>As verse succeeded verse the voices thrilled with an ever intenser ex-</p><p>citement. The sense of the Coming's imminence was like an electric </p><p>tension in the air. The President switched off the music and, with the </p><p>final note of the final stanza, there was absolute silence-the silence of </p><p>stretched expectancy, quivering and creeping with a galvanic life. The </p><p>President reached out his hand; and suddenly a Voice, a deep strong </p><p>Voice, more musical than any merely human voice, richer, warmer, </p><p>more vibrant with love and yearning and compassion, a wonderful, </p><p>mysterious, supernatural Voice spoke from above their heads. Very </p><p>slowly, "Oh, Ford, Ford, Ford," it said diminishingly and on a descend- </p><p>ing scale. A sensation of warmth radiated thrillingly out from the solar </p><p>plexus to every extremity of the bodies of those who listened; tears </p><p>came into their eyes; their hearts, their bowels seemed to move within </p><p>them, as though with an independent life. "Ford!" they were melting, </p><p>"Ford!" dissolved, dissolved. Then, in another tone, suddenly, star- </p><p>tlingly. "Listen!" trumpeted the voice. "Listen!" They listened. After a </p><p>pause, sunk to a whisper, but a whisper, somehow, more penetrating </p><p>than the loudest cry. "The feet of the Greater Being," it went on, and </p><p>repeated the words: "The feet of the Greater Being." The whisper al- </p><p>most expired. "The feet of the Greater Being are on the stairs." And </p><p>once more there was silence; and the expectancy, momentarily re- </p><p>laxed, was stretched again, tauter, tauter, almost to the tearing point. </p><p>The feet of the Greater Being-oh, they heard them, they heard them, </p><p>coming softly down the stairs, coming nearer and nearer down the in- </p><p>visible stairs. The feet of the Greater Being. And suddenly the tearing </p><p>point was reached. Her eyes staring, her lips parted. Morgana </p><p>Rothschild sprang to her feet. </p><p>"I hear him," she cried. "I hear him." </p><p>"He's coming," shouted Sarojini Engels. </p><p>"Yes, he's coming, I hear him." Fifi Bradlaugh and Tom Kawaguchi rose </p><p>simultaneously to their feet. </p><p>"Oh, oh, oh!" Joanna inarticulately testified. </p><p>"He's coming!" yelled Jim Bokanovsky. </p><p>The President leaned forward and, with a touch, released a delirium of </p><p>cymbals and blown brass, a fever of tom-tomming. </p><p>"Oh, he's coming!" screamed Clara Deterding. "Aie!" and it was as </p><p>though she were having her throat cut. </p><p>Feeling that it was time for him to do something, Bernard also jumped </p><p>up and shouted: "I hear him; He's coming." But it wasn't true. He </p><p>heard nothing and, for him, nobody was coming. Nobody-in spite of </p><p>the music, in spite of the mounting excitement. But he waved his </p><p>arms, he shouted with the best of them; and when the others began to </p><p>jig and stamp and shuffle, he also jigged and shuffled. </p><p>Round they went, a circular procession of dancers, each with hands on </p><p>the hips of the dancer preceding, round and round, shouting in unison, </p><p>stamping to the rhythm of the music with their feet, beating it, beating </p><p>it out with hands on the buttocks in front; twelve pairs of hands beat- </p><p>ing as one; as one, twelve buttocks slabbily resounding. Twelve as</p><p>one, twelve as one. "I hear Him, I hear Him coming." The music quick- </p><p>ened; faster beat the feet, faster, faster fell the rhythmic hands. And </p><p>all at once a great synthetic bass boomed out the words which an- </p><p>nounced the approaching atonement and final consummation of soli- </p><p>darity, the coming of the Twelve-in-One, the incarnation of the Greater </p><p>Being. "Orgy-porgy," it sang, while the tom-toms continued to beat </p><p>their feverish tattoo: </p><p>"Orgy-porgy, Ford and fun, </p><p>Kiss the girls and make them One. </p><p>Boys at One with girls at peace; </p><p>Orgy-porgy gives release. " </p><p>"Orgy-porgy," the dancers caught up the liturgical refrain, "Orgy-porgy, </p><p>Ford and fun, kiss the girls ..." And as they sang, the lights began </p><p>slowly to fade-to fade and at the same time to grow warmer, richer, </p><p>redder, until at last they were dancing in the crimson twilight of an </p><p>Embryo Store. "Orgy-porgy ..." In their blood-coloured and foetal dark- </p><p>ness the dancers continued for a while to circulate, to beat and beat </p><p>out the indefatigable rhythm. "Orgy-porgy ..." Then the circle wavered, </p><p>broke, fell in partial disintegration on the ring of couches which sur- </p><p>rounded-circle enclosing circle-the table and its planetary chairs. </p><p>"Orgy-porgy ..." Tenderly the deep Voice crooned and cooed; in the red </p><p>twilight it was as though some enormous negro dove were hovering </p><p>benevolently over the now prone or supine dancers. </p><p>They were standing on the roof; Big Henry had just sung eleven. The </p><p>night was calm and warm. </p><p>"Wasn't it wonderful?" said Fifi Bradlaugh. "Wasn't it simply wonder- </p><p>ful?" She looked at Bernard with an expression of rapture, but of rap- </p><p>ture in which there was no trace of agitation or excitement-for to be </p><p>excited is still to be unsatisfied. Hers was the calm ecstasy of achieved </p><p>consummation, the peace, not of mere vacant satiety and nothingness, </p><p>but of balanced life, of energies at rest and in equilibrium. A rich and </p><p>living peace. For the Solidarity Service had given as well as taken, </p><p>drawn off only to replenish. She was full, she was made perfect, she </p><p>was still more than merely herself. "Didn't you think it was wonderful?" </p><p>she insisted, looking into Bernard's face with those supernaturally </p><p>shining eyes. </p><p>"Yes, I thought it was wonderful," he lied and looked away; the sight of </p><p>her transfigured face was at once an accusation and an ironical re- </p><p>minder of his own separateness. He was as miserably isolated now as </p><p>he had been when the service began-more isolated by reason of his </p><p>unreplenished emptiness, his dead satiety. Separate and unatoned, </p><p>while the others were being fused into the Greater Being; alone even </p><p>in Morgana's embrace-much more alone, indeed, more hopelessly </p><p>himself than he had ever been in his life before. He had emerged from </p><p>that crimson twilight into the common electric glare with a self- </p><p>consciousness intensified to the pitch of agony. He was utterly miser- </p><p>able, and perhaps (her shining eyes accused him), perhaps it was his </p><p>own fault. "Quite wonderful," he repeated; but the only thing he could </p><p>think of was Morgana's eyebrow.</p><p>ODD, ODD, odd, was Lenina's verdict on Bernard Marx. So odd, in- </p><p>deed, that in the course of the succeeding weeks she had wondered </p><p>more than once whether she shouldn't change her mind about the New </p><p>Mexico holiday, and go instead to the North Pole with Benito Hoover. </p><p>The trouble was that she knew the North Pole, had been there with </p><p>George Edzel only last summer, and what was more, found it pretty </p><p>grim. Nothing to do, and the hotel too hopelessly old-fashioned-no </p><p>television laid on in the bedrooms, no scent organ, only the most pu- </p><p>trid synthetic music, and not more than twenty-five Escalator-Squash </p><p>Courts for over two hundred guests. No, decidedly she couldn't face </p><p>the North Pole again. Added to which, she had only been to America </p><p>once before. And even then, how inadequately! A cheap week-end in </p><p>New York-had it been with Jean-Jacques Habibullah or Bokanovsky </p><p>Jones? She couldn't remember. Anyhow, it was of absolutely no impor- </p><p>tance. The prospect of flying West again, and for a whole week, was </p><p>very inviting. Moreover, for at least three days of that week they would </p><p>be in the Savage Reservation. Not more than half a dozen people in </p><p>the whole Centre had ever been inside a Savage Reservation. As an </p><p>Alpha-Plus psychologist, Bernard was one of the few men she knew </p><p>entitled to a permit. For Lenina, the opportunity was unique. And yet, </p><p>so unique also was Bernard's oddness that she had hesitated to take </p><p>it, had actually thought of risking the Pole again with funny old Benito. </p><p>At least Benito was normal. Whereas Bernard ... </p><p>"Alcohol in his blood-surrogate," was Fanny's explanation of every ec- </p><p>centricity. But Henry, with whom, one evening when they were in bed </p><p>together, Lenina had rather anxiously discussed her new lover, Henry </p><p>had compared poor Bernard to a rhinoceros. </p><p>"You can't teach a rhinoceros tricks," he had explained in his brief and </p><p>vigorous style. "Some men are almost rhinoceroses; they don't re- </p><p>spond properly to conditioning. Poor Devils! Bernard's one of them. </p><p>Luckily for him, he's pretty good at his job. Otherwise the Director </p><p>would never have kept him. However," he added consolingly, "I think </p><p>he's pretty harmless." </p><p>Pretty harmless, perhaps; but also pretty disquieting. That mania, to </p><p>start with, for doing things in private. Which meant, in practice, not </p><p>doing anything at all. For what was there that one could do in private. </p><p>(Apart, of course, from going to bed: but one couldn't do that all the </p><p>time.) Yes, what was there? Precious little. The first afternoon they </p><p>went out together was particularly fine. Lenina had suggested a swim </p><p>at Toquay Country Club followed by dinner at the Oxford Union. But </p><p>Bernard thought there would be too much of a crowd. Then what </p><p>about a round of Electro-magnetic Golf at St. Andrew's? But again, no: </p><p>Bernard considered that Electro-magnetic Golf was a waste of time. </p><p>"Then what's time for?" asked Lenina in some astonishment. </p><p>Apparently, for going walks in the Lake District; for that was what he </p><p>now proposed. Land on the top of Skiddaw and walk for a couple of </p><p>hours in the heather. "Alone with you, Lenina." </p><p>"But, Bernard, we shall be alone all night." </p><p>Bernard blushed and looked away. "I meant, alone for talking," he </p><p>mumbled. </p><p>"Talking? But what about?" Walking and talking-that seemed a very </p><p>odd way of spending an afternoon. </p><p>In the end she persuaded him, much against his will, to fly over to </p><p>Amsterdam to see the Semi-Demi-Finals of the Women's Heavyweight </p><p>Wrestling Championship. </p><p>"In a crowd," he grumbled. "As usual." He remained obstinately </p><p>gloomy the whole afternoon; wouldn't talk to Lenina's friends (of </p><p>whom they met dozens in the ice-cream soma bar between the wres- </p><p>tling bouts); and in spite of his misery absolutely refused to take the </p><p>half-gramme raspberry sundae which she pressed upon him. "I'd </p><p>rather be myself," he said. "Myself and nasty. Not somebody else, </p><p>however jolly." </p><p>"A gramme in time saves nine," said Lenina, producing a bright treas- </p><p>ure of sleep-taught wisdom. Bernard pushed away the proffered glass </p><p>impatiently. </p><p>"Now don't lose your temper," she said. "Remember one cubic centi- </p><p>metre cures ten gloomy sentiments." </p><p>"Oh, for Ford's sake, be quiet!" he shouted. </p><p>Lenina shrugged her shoulders. "A gramme is always better than a </p><p>damn," she concluded with dignity, and drank the sundae herself. </p><p>On their way back across the Channel, Bernard insisted on stopping his </p><p>propeller and hovering on his helicopter screws within a hundred feet </p><p>of the waves. The weather had taken a change for the worse; a south- </p><p>westerly wind had sprung up, the sky was cloudy. </p><p>"Look," he commanded. </p><p>"But it's horrible," said Lenina, shrinking back from the window. She </p><p>was appalled by the rushing emptiness of the night, by the black </p><p>foam-flecked water heaving beneath them, by the pale face of the </p><p>moon, so haggard and distracted among the hastening clouds. "Let's </p><p>turn on the radio. Quick!" She reached for the dialling knob on the </p><p>dash-board and turned it at random. </p><p>"... skies are blue inside of you," sang sixteen tremoloing falsettos, </p><p>"the weather's always ..." </p><p>Then a hiccough and silence. Bernard had switched off the current. </p><p>"I want to look at the sea in peace," he said. "One can't even look with </p><p>that beastly noise going on."</p><p>"But it's lovely. And I don't want to look." </p><p>"But I do," he insisted. "It makes me feel as though ..." he hesitated, </p><p>searching for words with which to express himself, "as though I were </p><p>more me, if you see what I mean. More on my own, not so completely </p><p>a part of something else. Not just a cell in the social body. Doesn't it </p><p>make you feel like that, Lenina?" </p><p>But Lenina was crying. "It's horrible, it's horrible," she kept repeating. </p><p>"And how can you talk like that about not wanting to be a part of the </p><p>social body? After all, every one works for every one else. We can't do </p><p>without any one. Even Epsilons ..." </p><p>"Yes, I know," said Bernard derisively. "'Even Epsilons are useful'! So </p><p>am I. And I damned well wish I weren't!" </p><p>Lenina was shocked by his blasphemy. "Bernard!" She protested in a </p><p>voice of amazed distress. "How can you?" </p><p>In a different key, "How can I?" he repeated meditatively. "No, the real </p><p>problem is: How is it that I can't, or rather-because, after all, I know </p><p>quite well why I can't-what would it be like if I could, if I were free- </p><p>not enslaved by my conditioning." </p><p>"But, Bernard, you're saying the most awful things." </p><p>"Don't you wish you were free, Lenina?" </p><p>"I don't know what you mean. I am free. Free to have the most won- </p><p>derful time. Everybody's happy nowadays." </p><p>He laughed, "Yes, 'Everybody's happy nowadays.' We begin giving the </p><p>children that at five. But wouldn't you like to be free to be happy in </p><p>some other way, Lenina? In your own way, for example; not in every- </p><p>body else's way." </p><p>"I don't know what you mean," she repeated. Then, turning to him, </p><p>"Oh, do let's go back, Bernard," she besought; "I do so hate it here." </p><p>"Don't you like being with me?" </p><p>"But of course, Bernard. It's this horrible place." </p><p>"I thought we'd be more ... more together here-with nothing but the </p><p>sea and moon. More together than in that crowd, or even in my </p><p>rooms. Don't you understand that?" </p><p>"I don't understand anything," she said with decision, determined to </p><p>preserve her incomprehension intact. "Nothing. Least of all," she con- </p><p>tinued in another tone "why you don't take soma when you have these </p><p>dreadful ideas of yours. You'd forget all about them. And instead of </p><p>feeling miserable, you'd be jolly. So jolly," she repeated and smiled, for </p><p>all the puzzled anxiety in her eyes, with what was meant to be an in- </p><p>viting and voluptuous cajolery. </p><p>He looked at her in silence, his face unresponsive and very grave- </p><p>looked at her intently. After a few seconds Lenina's eyes flinched </p><p>away; she uttered a nervous little laugh, tried to think of something to </p><p>say and couldn't. The silence prolonged itself. </p><p>When Bernard spoke at last, it was in a small tired voice. "All right </p><p>then," he said, "we'll go back." And stepping hard on the accelerator, </p><p>he sent the machine rocketing up into the sky. At four thousand he </p><p>started his propeller. They flew in silence for a minute or two. Then, </p><p>suddenly, Bernard began to laugh. Rather oddly, Lenina thought, but </p><p>still, it was laughter. </p><p>"Feeling better?" she ventured to ask. </p><p>For answer, he lifted one hand from the controls and, slipping his arm </p><p>around her, began to fondle her breasts. </p><p>"Thank Ford," she said to herself, "he's all right again." </p><p>Half an hour later they were back in his rooms. Bernard swallowed four </p><p>tablets of soma at a gulp, turned on the radio and television and began </p><p>to undress. </p><p>"Well," Lenina enquired, with significant archness when they met next </p><p>afternoon on the roof, "did you think it was fun yesterday?" </p><p>Bernard nodded. They climbed into the plane. A little jolt, and they </p><p>were off. </p><p>"Every one says I'm awfully pneumatic," said Lenina reflectively, pat- </p><p>ting her own legs. </p><p>"Awfully." But there was an expression of pain in Bernard's eyes. "Like </p><p>meat," he was thinking. </p><p>She looked up with a certain anxiety. "But you don't think I'm too </p><p>plump, do you?" </p><p>He shook his head. Like so much meat. </p><p>"You think I'm all right." Another nod. "In every way?" </p><p>"Perfect," he said aloud. And inwardly. "She thinks of herself that way. </p><p>She doesn't mind being meat." </p><p>Lenina smiled triumphantly. But her satisfaction was premature. </p><p>"All the same," he went on, after a little pause, "I still rather wish it </p><p>had all ended differently." </p><p>"Differently?" Were there other endings? </p><p>"I didn't want it to end with our going to bed," he specified. </p><p>Lenina was astonished. </p><p>"Not at once, not the first day."</p><p>"But then what ...?" </p><p>He began to talk a lot of incomprehensible and dangerous nonsense. </p><p>Lenina did her best to stop the ears of her mind; but every now and </p><p>then a phrase would insist on becoming audible. "... to try the effect of </p><p>arresting my impulses," she heard him say. The words seemed to </p><p>touch a spring in her mind. </p><p>"Never put off till to-morrow the fun you can have to-day," she said </p><p>gravely. </p><p>"Two hundred repetitions, twice a week from fourteen to sixteen and a </p><p>half," was all his comment. The mad bad talk rambled on. "I want to </p><p>know what passion is," she heard him saying. "I want to feel some- </p><p>thing strongly." </p><p>"When the individual feels, the community reels," Lenina pronounced. </p><p>"Well, why shouldn't it reel a bit?" </p><p>"Bernard!" </p><p>But Bernard remained unabashed. </p><p>"Adults intellectually and during working hours," he went on. "Infants </p><p>where feeling and desire are concerned." </p><p>"Our Ford loved infants." </p><p>Ignoring the interruption. "It suddenly struck me the other day," con- </p><p>tinued Bernard, "that it might be possible to be an adult all the time." </p><p>"I don't understand." Lenina's tone was firm. </p><p>"I know you don't. And that's why we went to bed together yester- </p><p>day-like infants-instead of being adults and waiting." </p><p>"But it was fun," Lenina insisted. "Wasn't it?" </p><p>"Oh, the greatest fun," he answered, but in a voice so mournful, with </p><p>an expression so profoundly miserable, that Lenina felt all her triumph </p><p>suddenly evaporate. Perhaps he had found her too plump, after all. </p><p>"I told you so," was all that Fanny said, when Lenina came and made </p><p>her confidences. "It's the alcohol they put in his surrogate." </p><p>"All the same," Lenina insisted. "I do like him. He has such awfully nice </p><p>hands. And the way he moves his shoulders-that's very attractive." </p><p>She sighed. "But I wish he weren't so odd." </p><p>§ 2 </p><p>HALTING for a moment outside the door of the Director's room, Ber- </p><p>nard drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders, bracing himself to </p><p>meet the dislike and disapproval which he was certain of finding </p><p>within. He knocked and entered. </p><p>"A permit for you to initial, Director," he said as airily as possible, and </p><p>laid the paper on the writing-table. </p><p>The Director glanced at him sourly. But the stamp of the World Con- </p><p>troller's Office was at the head of the paper and the signature of Mus- </p><p>tapha Mond, bold and black, across the bottom. Everything was per- </p><p>fectly in order. The director had no choice. He pencilled his initials-two </p><p>small pale letters abject at the feet of Mustapha Mond-and was about </p><p>to return the paper without a word of comment or genial Ford-speed, </p><p>when his eye was caught by something written in the body of the per- </p><p>mit. </p><p>"For the New Mexican Reservation?" he said, and his tone, the face he </p><p>lifted to Bernard, expressed a kind of agitated astonishment. </p><p>Surprised by his surprise, Bernard nodded. There was a silence. </p><p>The Director leaned back in his chair, frowning. "How long ago was it?" </p><p>he said, speaking more to himself than to Bernard. "Twenty years, I </p><p>suppose. Nearer twenty-five. I must have been your age ..." He sighed </p><p>and shook his head. </p><p>Bernard felt extremely uncomfortable. A man so conventional, so scru- </p><p>pulously correct as the Director-and to commit so gross a solecism! It </p><p>made him want to hide his face, to run out of the room. Not that he </p><p>himself saw anything intrinsically objectionable in people talking about </p><p>the remote past; that was one of those hypnopaedic prejudices he had </p><p>(so he imagined) completely got rid of. What made him feel shy was </p><p>the knowledge that the Director disapproved-disapproved and yet had </p><p>been betrayed into doing the forbidden thing. Under what inward com- </p><p>pulsion? Through his discomfort Bernard eagerly listened. </p><p>"I had the same idea as you," the Director was saying. "Wanted to </p><p>have a look at the savages. Got a permit for New Mexico and went </p><p>there for my summer holiday. With the girl I was having at the mo- </p><p>ment. She was a Beta-Minus, and I think" (he shut his eyes), "I think </p><p>she had yellow hair. Anyhow she was pneumatic, particularly pneu- </p><p>matic; I remember that. Well, we went there, and we looked at the </p><p>savages, and we rode about on horses and all that. And then-it was </p><p>almost the last day of my leave-then ... well, she got lost. We'd gone </p><p>riding up one of those revolting mountains, and it was horribly hot and </p><p>oppressive, and after lunch we went to sleep. Or at least I did. She </p><p>must have gone for a walk, alone. At any rate, when I woke up, she </p><p>wasn't there. And the most frightful thunderstorm I've ever seen was </p><p>just bursting on us. And it poured and roared and flashed; and the </p><p>horses broke loose and ran away; and I fell down, trying to catch </p><p>them, and hurt my knee, so that I could hardly walk. Still, I searched </p><p>and I shouted and I searched. But there was no sign of her. Then I </p><p>thought she must have gone back to the rest-house by herself. So I </p><p>crawled down into the valley by the way we had come. My knee was </p><p>agonizingly painful, and I'd lost my soma. It took me hours. I didn't</p><p>get back to the rest-house till after midnight. And she wasn't there; </p><p>she wasn't there," the Director repeated. There was a silence. "Well," </p><p>he resumed at last, "the next day there was a search. But we couldn't </p><p>find her. She must have fallen into a gully somewhere; or been eaten </p><p>by a mountain lion. Ford knows. Anyhow it was horrible. It upset me </p><p>very much at the time. More than it ought to have done, I dare say. </p><p>Because, after all, it's the sort of accident that might have happened </p><p>to any one; and, of course, the social body persists although the com- </p><p>ponent cells may change." But this sleep-taught consolation did not </p><p>seem to be very effective. Shaking his head, "I actually dream about it </p><p>sometimes," the Director went on in a low voice. "Dream of being </p><p>woken up by that peal of thunder and finding her gone; dream of </p><p>searching and searching for her under the trees." He lapsed into the </p><p>silence of reminiscence. </p><p>"You must have had a terrible shock," said Bernard, almost enviously. </p><p>At the sound of his voice the Director started into a guilty realization of </p><p>where he was; shot a glance at Bernard, and averting his eyes, </p><p>blushed darkly; looked at him again with sudden suspicion and, angrily </p><p>on his dignity, "Don't imagine," he said, "that I'd had any indecorous </p><p>relation with the girl. Nothing emotional, nothing long-drawn. It was all </p><p>perfectly healthy and normal." He handed Bernard the permit. "I really </p><p>don't know why I bored you with this trivial anecdote." Furious with </p><p>himself for having given away a discreditable secret, he vented his </p><p>rage on Bernard. The look in his eyes was now frankly malignant. "And </p><p>I should like to take this opportunity, Mr. Marx," he went on, "of saying </p><p>that I'm not at all pleased with the reports I receive of your behaviour </p><p>outside working hours. You may say that this is not my business. But it </p><p>is. I have the good name of the Centre to think of. My workers must </p><p>be above suspicion, particularly those of the highest castes. Alphas are </p><p>so conditioned that they do not have to be infantile in their emotional </p><p>behaviour. But that is all the more reason for their making a special ef- </p><p>fort to conform. It is their duty to be infantile, even against their incli- </p><p>nation. And so, Mr. Marx, I give you fair warning." The Director's voice </p><p>vibrated with an indignation that had now become wholly righteous </p><p>and impersonal-was the expression of the disapproval of Society itself. </p><p>"If ever I hear again of any lapse from a proper standard of infantile </p><p>decorum, I shall ask for your transference to a Sub-Centre-preferably </p><p>to Iceland. Good morning." And swivelling round in his chair, he picked </p><p>up his pen and began to write. </p><p>"That'll teach him," he said to himself. But he was mistaken. For Ber- </p><p>nard left the room with a swagger, exulting, as he banged the door </p><p>behind him, in the thought that he stood alone, embattled against the </p><p>order of things; elated by the intoxicating consciousness of his individ- </p><p>ual significance and importance. Even the thought of persecution left </p><p>him undismayed, was rather tonic than depressing. He felt strong </p><p>enough to meet and overcome affliction, strong enough to face even </p><p>Iceland. And this confidence was the greater for his not for a moment </p><p>really believing that he would be called upon to face anything at all. </p><p>People simply weren't transferred for things like that. Iceland was just </p><p>a threat. A most stimulating and life-giving threat. Walking along the </p><p>corridor, he actually whistled. </p><p>Heroic was the account he gave that evening of his interview with the</p><p>D.H.C. "Whereupon," it concluded, "I simply told him to go to the Bot- </p><p>tomless Past and marched out of the room. And that was that." He </p><p>looked at Helmholtz Watson expectantly, awaiting his due reward of </p><p>sympathy, encouragement, admiration. But no word came. Helmholtz </p><p>sat silent, staring at the floor. </p><p>He liked Bernard; he was grateful to him for being the only man of his </p><p>acquaintance with whom he could talk about the subjects he felt to be </p><p>important. Nevertheless, there were things in Bernard which he hated. </p><p>This boasting, for example. And the outbursts of an abject self-pity </p><p>with which it alternated. And his deplorable habit of being bold after </p><p>the event, and full, in absence, of the most extraordinary presence of </p><p>mind. He hated these things-just because he liked Bernard. The sec- </p><p>onds passed. Helmholtz continued to stare at the floor. And suddenly </p><p>Bernard blushed and turned away. </p><p>§3 </p><p>THE journey was quite uneventful. The Blue Pacific Rocket was two </p><p>and a half minutes early at New Orleans, lost four minutes in a tornado </p><p>over Texas, but flew into a favourable air current at Longitude 95 </p><p>West, and was able to land at Santa Fe less than forty seconds behind </p><p>schedule time. </p><p>"Forty seconds on a six and a half hour flight. Not so bad," Lenina con- </p><p>ceded. </p><p>They slept that night at Santa Fe. The hotel was excellent-incompara- </p><p>bly better, for example, than that horrible Aurora Bora Palace in which </p><p>Lenina had suffered so much the previous summer. Liquid air, televi- </p><p>sion, vibro-vacuum massage, radio, boiling caffeine solution, hot con- </p><p>traceptives, and eight different kinds of scent were laid on in every </p><p>bedroom. The synthetic music plant was working as they entered the </p><p>hall and left nothing to be desired. A notice in the lift announced that </p><p>there were sixty Escalator-Squash-Racket Courts in the hotel, and that </p><p>Obstacle and Electro-magnetic Golf could both be played in the park. </p><p>"But it sounds simply too lovely," cried Lenina. "I almost wish we could </p><p>stay here. Sixty Escalator-Squash Courts ..." </p><p>"There won't be any in the Reservation," Bernard warned her. "And no </p><p>scent, no television, no hot water even. If you feel you can't stand it, </p><p>stay here till I come back." </p><p>Lenina was quite offended. "Of course I can stand it. I only said it was </p><p>lovely here because ... well, because progress is lovely, isn't it?" </p><p>"Five hundred repetitions once a week from thirteen to seventeen," </p><p>said Bernard wearily, as though to himself. </p><p>"What did you say?" </p><p>"I said that progress was lovely. That's why you mustn't come to the </p><p>Reservation unless you really want to." </p><p>"But I do want to." </p><p>"Very well, then," said Bernard; and it was almost a threat. </p><p>Their permit required the signature of the Warden of the Reservation, </p><p>at whose office next morning they duly presented themselves. An </p><p>Epsilon-Plus negro porter took in Bernard's card, and they were admit- </p><p>ted almost immediately. </p><p>The Warden was a blond and brachycephalic Alpha-Minus, short, red, </p><p>moon-faced, and broad-shouldered, with a loud booming voice, very </p><p>well adapted to the utterance of hypnopaedic wisdom. He was a mine </p><p>of irrelevant information and unasked-for good advice. Once started, </p><p>he went on and on-boomingly. </p><p>"... five hundred and sixty thousand square kilometres, divided into </p><p>four distinct Sub-Reservations, each surrounded by a high-tension wire </p><p>fence." </p><p>At this moment, and for no apparent reason, Bernard suddenly re- </p><p>membered that he had left the Eau de Cologne tap in his bathroom </p><p>wide open and running. </p><p>"... supplied with current from the Grand Canyon hydro-electric sta- </p><p>tion." </p><p>"Cost me a fortune by the time I get back." With his mind's eye, Ber- </p><p>nard saw the needle on the scent meter creeping round and round, </p><p>antlike, indefatigable. "Quickly telephone to Helmholtz Watson." </p><p>"... upwards of five thousand kilometres of fencing at sixty thousand </p><p>volts." </p><p>"You don't say so," said Lenina politely, not knowing in the least what </p><p>the Warden had said, but taking her cue from his dramatic pause. </p><p>When the Warden started booming, she had inconspicuously swallowed </p><p>half a gramme of soma, with the result that she could now sit, se- </p><p>renely not listening, thinking of nothing at all, but with her large blue </p><p>eyes fixed on the Warden's face in an expression of rapt attention. </p><p>"To touch the fence is instant death," pronounced the Warden sol- </p><p>emnly. "There is no escape from a Savage Reservation." </p><p>The word "escape" was suggestive. "Perhaps," said Bernard, half ris- </p><p>ing, "we ought to think of going." The little black needle was scurrying, </p><p>an insect, nibbling through time, eating into his money. </p><p>"No escape," repeated the Warden, waving him back into his chair; </p><p>and as the permit was not yet countersigned Bernard had no choice </p><p>but to obey. "Those who are born in the Reservation-and remember, </p><p>my dear young lady," he added, leering obscenely at Lenina, and </p><p>speaking in an improper whisper, "remember that, in the Reservation, </p><p>children still are born, yes, actually born, revolting as that may seem </p><p>..." (He hoped that this reference to a shameful subject would make</p><p>Lenina blush; but she only smiled with simulated intelligence and said, </p><p>"You don't say so!" Disappointed, the Warden began again. ) "Those, I </p><p>repeat who are born in the Reservation are destined to die there." </p><p>Destined to die ... A decilitre of Eau de Cologne every minute. Six litres </p><p>an hour. "Perhaps," Bernard tried again, "we ought ..." </p><p>Leaning forward, the Warden tapped the table with his forefinger. "You </p><p>ask me how many people live in the Reservation. And I reply"-trium- </p><p>phantly-"I reply that we do not know. We can only guess." </p><p>"You don't say so." </p><p>"My dear young lady, I do say so." </p><p>Six times twenty-four-no, it would be nearer six times thirty-six. Ber- </p><p>nard was pale and trembling with impatience. But inexorably the </p><p>booming continued. </p><p>"... about sixty thousand Indians and half-breeds ... absolute savages ... </p><p>our inspectors occasionally visit ... otherwise, no communication what- </p><p>ever with the civilized world ... still preserve their repulsive habits and </p><p>customs ... marriage, if you know what that is, my dear young lady; </p><p>families ... no conditioning ... monstrous superstitions ... Christianity </p><p>and totemism and ancestor worship ... extinct languages, such as Zuni </p><p>and Spanish and Athapascan ... pumas, porcupines and other ferocious </p><p>animals ... infectious diseases ... priests ... venomous lizards ..." </p><p>"You don't say so?" </p><p>They got away at last. Bernard dashed to the telephone. Quick, quick; </p><p>but it took him nearly three minutes to get on to Helmholtz Watson. </p><p>"We might be among the savages already," he complained. "Damned </p><p>incompetence!" </p><p>"Have a gramme," suggested Lenina. </p><p>He refused, preferring his anger. And at last, thank Ford, he was </p><p>through and, yes, it was Helmholtz; Helmholtz, to whom he explained </p><p>what had happened, and who promised to go round at once, at once, </p><p>and turn off the tap, yes, at once, but took this opportunity to tell him </p><p>what the D.H.C. had said, in public, yesterday evening ... </p><p>"What? He's looking out for some one to take my place?" Bernard's </p><p>voice was agonized. "So it's actually decided? Did he mention Iceland? </p><p>You say he did? Ford! Iceland ..." He hung up the receiver and turned </p><p>back to Lenina. His face was pale, his expression utterly dejected. </p><p>"What's the matter?" she asked. </p><p>"The matter?" He dropped heavily into a chair. "I'm going to be sent to </p><p>Iceland." </p><p>Often in the past he had wondered what it would be like to be sub- </p><p>jected (soma - less and with nothing but his own inward resources to </p><p>rely on) to some great trial, some pain, some persecution; he had</p><p>even longed for affliction. As recently as a week ago, in the Director's </p><p>office, he had imagined himself courageously resisting, stoically ac- </p><p>cepting suffering without a word. The Director's threats had actually </p><p>elated him, made him feel larger than life. But that, as he now real- </p><p>ized, was because he had not taken the threats quite seriously, he had </p><p>not believed that, when it came to the point, the D.H.C. would ever do </p><p>anything. Now that it looked as though the threats were really to be </p><p>fulfilled, Bernard was appalled. Of that imagined stoicism, that theo- </p><p>retical courage, not a trace was left. </p><p>He raged against himself-what a fool!-against the Director-how unfair </p><p>not to give him that other chance, that other chance which, he now </p><p>had no doubt at all, he had always intended to take. And Iceland, Ice- </p><p>land ... </p><p>Lenina shook her head. "Was and will make me ill," she quoted, "I take </p><p>a gramme and only am." </p><p>In the end she persuaded him to swallow four tablets of soma. Five </p><p>minutes later roots and fruits were abolished; the flower of the present </p><p>rosily blossomed. A message from the porter announced that, at the </p><p>Warden's orders, a Reservation Guard had come round with a plane </p><p>and was waiting on the roof of the hotel. They went up at once. An oc- </p><p>toroon in Gamma-green uniform saluted and proceeded to recite the </p><p>morning's programme. </p><p>A bird's-eye view of ten or a dozen of the principal pueblos, then a </p><p>landing for lunch in the valley of Malpais. The rest-house was comfort- </p><p>able there, and up at the pueblo the savages would probably be cele- </p><p>brating their summer festival. It would be the best place to spend the </p><p>night. </p><p>They took their seats in the plane and set off. Ten minutes later they </p><p>were crossing the frontier that separated civilization from savagery. </p><p>Uphill and down, across the deserts of salt or sand, through forests, </p><p>into the violet depth of canyons, over crag and peak and table-topped </p><p>mesa, the fence marched on and on, irresistibly the straight line, the </p><p>geometrical symbol of triumphant human purpose. And at its foot, </p><p>here and there, a mosaic of white bones, a still unrotted carcase dark </p><p>on the tawny ground marked the place where deer or steer, puma or </p><p>porcupine or coyote, or the greedy turkey buzzards drawn down by the </p><p>whiff of carrion and fulminated as though by a poetic justice, had come </p><p>too close to the destroying wires. </p><p>"They never learn," said the green-uniformed pilot, pointing down at </p><p>the skeletons on the ground below them. "And they never will learn," </p><p>he added and laughed, as though he had somehow scored a personal </p><p>triumph over the electrocuted animals. </p><p>Bernard also laughed; after two grammes of soma the joke seemed, </p><p>for some reason, good. Laughed and then, almost immediately, </p><p>dropped off to sleep, and sleeping was carried over Taos and Tesuque; </p><p>over Nambe and Picuris and Pojoaque, over Sia and Cochiti, over La- </p><p>guna and Acoma and the Enchanted Mesa, over Zuni and Cibola and </p><p>Ojo Caliente, and woke at last to find the machine standing on the </p><p>ground, Lenina carrying the suit-cases into a small square house, and</p><p>the Gamma-green octoroon talking incomprehensibly with a young In- </p><p>dian. </p><p>"Malpais," explained the pilot, as Bernard stepped out. "This is the </p><p>rest-house. And there's a dance this afternoon at the pueblo. He'll take </p><p>you there." He pointed to the sullen young savage. "Funny, I expect." </p><p>He grinned. "Everything they do is funny." And with that he climbed </p><p>into the plane and started up the engines. "Back to-morrow. And re- </p><p>member," he added reassuringly to Lenina, "they're perfectly tame; </p><p>savages won't do you any harm. They've got enough experience of gas </p><p>bombs to know that they mustn't play any tricks." Still laughing, he </p><p>threw the helicopter screws into gear, accelerated, and was gone. </p><p>THE MESA was like a ship becalmed in a strait of lion-coloured dust. </p><p>The channel wound between precipitous banks, and slanting from one </p><p>wall to the other across the valley ran a streak of green-the river and </p><p>its fields. On the prow of that stone ship in the centre of the strait, and </p><p>seemingly a part of it, a shaped and geometrical outcrop of the naked </p><p>rock, stood the pueblo of Malpais. Block above block, each story </p><p>smaller than the one below, the tall houses rose like stepped and am- </p><p>putated pyramids into the blue sky. At their feet lay a straggle of low </p><p>buildings, a criss-cross of walls; and on three sides the precipices fell </p><p>sheer into the plain. A few columns of smoke mounted perpendicularly </p><p>into the windless air and were lost. </p><p>"Queer," said Lenina. "Very queer." It was her ordinary word of con- </p><p>demnation. "I don't like it. And I don't like that man." She pointed to </p><p>the Indian guide who had been appointed to take them up to the </p><p>pueblo. Her feeling was evidently reciprocated; the very back of the </p><p>man, as he walked along before them, was hostile, sullenly contemp- </p><p>tuous. </p><p>"Besides," she lowered her voice, "he smells." </p><p>Bernard did not attempt to deny it. They walked on. </p><p>Suddenly it was as though the whole air had come alive and were </p><p>pulsing, pulsing with the indefatigable movement of blood. Up there, in </p><p>Malpais, the drums were being beaten. Their feet fell in with the </p><p>rhythm of that mysterious heart; they quickened their pace. Their path </p><p>led them to the foot of the precipice. The sides of the great mesa ship </p><p>towered over them, three hundred feet to the gunwale. </p><p>"I wish we could have brought the plane," said Lenina, looking up re- </p><p>sentfully at the blank impending rock-face. "I hate walking. And you </p><p>feel so small when you're on the ground at the bottom of a hill." </p><p>They walked along for some way in the shadow of the mesa, rounded </p><p>a projection, and there, in a water-worn ravine, was the way up the </p><p>companion ladder. They climbed. It was a very steep path that zig- </p><p>zagged from side to side of the gully. Sometimes the pulsing of the </p><p>drums was all but inaudible, at others they seemed to be beating only</p><p>just round the corner. </p><p>When they were half-way up, an eagle flew past so close to them that </p><p>the wind of his wings blew chill on their faces. In a crevice of the rock </p><p>lay a pile of bones. It was all oppressively queer, and the Indian smelt </p><p>stronger and stronger. They emerged at last from the ravine into the </p><p>full sunlight. The top of the mesa was a flat deck of stone. </p><p>"Like the Charing-T Tower," was Lenina's comment. But she was not al- </p><p>lowed to enjoy her discovery of this reassuring resemblance for long. A </p><p>padding of soft feet made them turn round. Naked from throat to na- </p><p>vel, their dark brown bodies painted with white lines ("like asphalt </p><p>tennis courts," Lenina was later to explain), their faces inhuman with </p><p>daubings of scarlet, black and ochre, two Indians came running along </p><p>the path. Their black hair was braided with fox fur and red flannel. </p><p>Cloaks of turkey feathers fluttered from their shoulders; huge feather </p><p>diadems exploded gaudily round their heads. With every step they </p><p>took came the clink and rattle of their silver bracelets, their heavy </p><p>necklaces of bone and turquoise beads. They came on without a word, </p><p>running quietly in their deerskin moccasins. One of them was holding a </p><p>feather brush; the other carried, in either hand, what looked at a dis- </p><p>tance like three or four pieces of thick rope. One of the ropes writhed </p><p>uneasily, and suddenly Lenina saw that they were snakes. </p><p>The men came nearer and nearer; their dark eyes looked at her, but </p><p>without giving any sign of recognition, any smallest sign that they had </p><p>seen her or were aware of her existence. The writhing snake hung limp </p><p>again with the rest. The men passed. </p><p>"I don't like it," said Lenina. "I don't like it." </p><p>She liked even less what awaited her at the entrance to the pueblo, </p><p>where their guide had left them while he went inside for instructions. </p><p>The dirt, to start with, the piles of rubbish, the dust, the dogs, the </p><p>flies. Her face wrinkled up into a grimace of disgust. She held her </p><p>handkerchief to her nose. </p><p>"But how can they live like this?" she broke out in a voice of indignant </p><p>incredulity. (It wasn't possible.) </p><p>Bernard shrugged his shoulders philosophically. "Anyhow," he said, </p><p>"they've been doing it for the last five or six thousand years. So I sup- </p><p>pose they must be used to it by now." </p><p>"But cleanliness is next to fordliness," she insisted. </p><p>"Yes, and civilization is sterilization," Bernard went on, concluding on a </p><p>tone of irony the second hypnopaedic lesson in elementary hygiene. </p><p>"But these people have never heard of Our Ford, and they aren't civi- </p><p>lized. So there's no point in ..." </p><p>"Oh!" She gripped his arm. "Look." </p><p>An almost naked Indian was very slowly climbing down the ladder from </p><p>the first-floor terrace of a neighboring house-rung after rung, with the </p><p>tremulous caution of extreme old age. His face was profoundly wrin- </p><p>kled and black, like a mask of obsidian. The toothless mouth had fallen</p><p>in. At the corners of the lips, and on each side of the chin, a few long </p><p>bristles gleamed almost white against the dark skin. The long un- </p><p>braided hair hung down in grey wisps round his face. His body was </p><p>bent and emaciated to the bone, almost fleshless. Very slowly he came </p><p>down, pausing at each rung before he ventured another step. </p><p>"What's the matter with him?" whispered Lenina. Her eyes were wide </p><p>with horror and amazement. </p><p>"He's old, that's all," Bernard answered as carelessly as he could. He </p><p>too was startled; but he made an effort to seem unmoved. </p><p>"Old?" she repeated. "But the Director's old; lots of people are old; </p><p>they're not like that." </p><p>"That's because we don't allow them to be like that. We preserve them </p><p>from diseases. We keep their internal secretions artificially balanced at </p><p>a youthful equilibrium. We don't permit their magnesium-calcium ratio </p><p>to fall below what it was at thirty. We give them transfusion of young </p><p>blood. We keep their metabolism permanently stimulated. So, of </p><p>course, they don't look like that. Partly," he added, "because most of </p><p>them die long before they reach this old creature's age. Youth almost </p><p>unimpaired till sixty, and then, crack! the end." </p><p>But Lenina was not listening. She was watching the old man. Slowly, </p><p>slowly he came down. His feet touched the ground. He turned. In their </p><p>deep-sunken orbits his eyes were still extraordinarily bright. They </p><p>looked at her for a long moment expressionlessly, without surprise, as </p><p>though she had not been there at all. Then slowly, with bent back the </p><p>old man hobbled past them and was gone. </p><p>"But it's terrible," Lenina whispered. "It's awful. We ought not to have </p><p>come here." She felt in her pocket for her soma - only to discover that, </p><p>by some unprecedented oversight, she had left the bottle down at the </p><p>rest-house. Bernard's pockets were also empty. </p><p>Lenina was left to face the horrors of Malpais unaided. They came </p><p>crowding in on her thick and fast. The spectacle of two young women </p><p>giving breast to their babies made her blush and turn away her face. </p><p>She had never seen anything so indecent in her life. And what made it </p><p>worse was that, instead of tactfully ignoring it, Bernard proceeded to </p><p>make open comments on this revoltingly viviparous scene. Ashamed, </p><p>now that the effects of the soma had worn off, of the weakness he had </p><p>displayed that morning in the hotel, he went out of his way to show </p><p>himself strong and unorthodox. </p><p>"What a wonderfully intimate relationship," he said, deliberately outra- </p><p>geous. "And what an intensity of feeling it must generate! I often think </p><p>one may have missed something in not having had a mother. And per- </p><p>haps you've missed something in not being a mother, Lenina. Imagine </p><p>yourself sitting there with a little baby of your own. ..." </p><p>"Bernard! How can you?" The passage of an old woman with oph- </p><p>thalmia and a disease of the skin distracted her from her indignation.</p><p>"Let's go away," she begged. "I don't like it." </p><p>But at this moment their guide came back and, beckoning them to fol- </p><p>low, led the way down the narrow street between the houses. They </p><p>rounded a corner. A dead dog was lying on a rubbish heap; a woman </p><p>with a goitre was looking for lice in the hair of a small girl. Their guide </p><p>halted at the foot of a ladder, raised his hand perpendicularly, then </p><p>darted it horizontally forward. They did what he mutely command- </p><p>ed-climbed the ladder and walked through the doorway, to which it </p><p>gave access, into a long narrow room, rather dark and smelling of </p><p>smoke and cooked grease and long-worn, long-unwashed clothes. At </p><p>the further end of the room was another doorway, through which came </p><p>a shaft of sunlight and the noise, very loud and close, of the drums. </p><p>They stepped across the threshold and found themselves on a wide </p><p>terrace. Below them, shut in by the tall houses, was the village square, </p><p>crowded with Indians. Bright blankets, and feathers in black hair, and </p><p>the glint of turquoise, and dark skins shining with heat. Lenina put her </p><p>handkerchief to her nose again. In the open space at the centre of the </p><p>square were two circular platforms of masonry and trampled clay-the </p><p>roofs, it was evident, of underground chambers; for in the centre of </p><p>each platform was an open hatchway, with a ladder emerging from the </p><p>lower darkness. A sound of subterranean flute playing came up and </p><p>was almost lost in the steady remorseless persistence of the drums. </p><p>Lenina liked the drums. Shutting her eyes she abandoned herself to </p><p>their soft repeated thunder, allowed it to invade her consciousness </p><p>more and more completely, till at last there was nothing left in the </p><p>world but that one deep pulse of sound. It reminded her reassuringly </p><p>of the synthetic noises made at Solidarity Services and Ford's Day </p><p>celebrations. "Orgy-porgy," she whispered to herself. These drums </p><p>beat out just the same rhythms. </p><p>There was a sudden startling burst of singing-hundreds of male voices </p><p>crying out fiercely in harsh metallic unison. A few long notes and si- </p><p>lence, the thunderous silence of the drums; then shrill, in a neighing </p><p>treble, the women's answer. Then again the drums; and once more the </p><p>men's deep savage affirmation of their manhood. </p><p>Queer-yes. The place was queer, so was the music, so were the </p><p>clothes and the goitres and the skin diseases and the old people. But </p><p>the performance itself-there seemed to be nothing specially queer </p><p>about that. </p><p>"It reminds me of a lower-caste Community Sing," she told Bernard. </p><p>But a little later it was reminding her a good deal less of that innocu- </p><p>ous function. For suddenly there had swarmed up from those round </p><p>chambers underground a ghastly troop of monsters. Hideously masked </p><p>or painted out of all semblance of humanity, they had tramped out a </p><p>strange limping dance round the square; round and again round, sing- </p><p>ing as they went, round and round-each time a little faster; and the </p><p>drums had changed and quickened their rhythm, so that it became like </p><p>the pulsing of fever in the ears; and the crowd had begun to sing with</p><p>the dancers, louder and louder; and first one woman had shrieked, </p><p>and then another and another, as though they were being killed; and </p><p>then suddenly the leader of the dancers broke out of the line, ran to a </p><p>big wooden chest which was standing at one end of the square, raised </p><p>the lid and pulled out a pair of black snakes. A great yell went up from </p><p>the crowd, and all the other dancers ran towards him with out- </p><p>stretched hands. He tossed the snakes to the first-comers, then dipped </p><p>back into the chest for more. More and more, black snakes and brown </p><p>and mottled-he flung them out. And then the dance began again on a </p><p>different rhythm. Round and round they went with their snakes, snak- </p><p>ily, with a soft undulating movement at the knees and hips. Round and </p><p>round. Then the leader gave a signal, and one after another, all the </p><p>snakes were flung down in the middle of the square; an old man came </p><p>up from underground and sprinkled them with corn meal, and from the </p><p>other hatchway came a woman and sprinkled them with water from a </p><p>black jar. Then the old man lifted his hand and, startlingly, terrifyingly, </p><p>there was absolute silence. The drums stopped beating, life seemed to </p><p>have come to an end. The old man pointed towards the two hatchways </p><p>that gave entrance to the lower world. And slowly, raised by invisible </p><p>hands from below, there emerged from the one a painted image of an </p><p>eagle, from the other that of a man, naked, and nailed to a cross. </p><p>They hung there, seemingly self-sustained, as though watching. The </p><p>old man clapped his hands. Naked but for a white cotton breech-cloth, </p><p>a boy of about eighteen stepped out of the crowd and stood before </p><p>him, his hands crossed over his chest, his head bowed. The old man </p><p>made the sign of the cross over him and turned away. Slowly, the boy </p><p>began to walk round the writhing heap of snakes. He had completed </p><p>the first circuit and was half-way through the second when, from </p><p>among the dancers, a tall man wearing the mask of a coyote and hold- </p><p>ing in his hand a whip of plaited leather, advanced towards him. The </p><p>boy moved on as though unaware of the other's existence. The coyote- </p><p>man raised his whip, there was a long moment of expectancy, then a </p><p>swift movement, the whistle of the lash and its loud flat-sounding im- </p><p>pact on the flesh. The boy's body quivered; but he made no sound, he </p><p>walked on at the same slow, steady pace. The coyote struck again, </p><p>again; and at every blow at first a gasp, and then a deep groan went </p><p>up from the crowd. The boy walked. Twice, thrice, four times round he </p><p>went. The blood was streaming. Five times round, six times round. </p><p>Suddenly Lenina covered her face shish her hands and began to sob. </p><p>"Oh, stop them, stop them!" she implored. But the whip fell and fell </p><p>inexorably. Seven times round. Then all at once the boy staggered </p><p>and, still without a sound, pitched forward on to his face. Bending over </p><p>him, the old man touched his back with a long white feather, held it up </p><p>for a moment, crimson, for the people to see then shook it thrice over </p><p>the snakes. A few drops fell, and suddenly the drums broke out again </p><p>into a panic of hurrying notes; there was a great shout. The dancers </p><p>rushed forward, picked up the snakes and ran out of the square. Men, </p><p>women, children, all the crowd ran after them. A minute later the </p><p>square was empty, only the boy remained, prone where he had fallen, </p><p>quite still. Three old women came out of one of the houses, and with </p><p>some difficulty lifted him and carried him in. The eagle and the man on </p><p>the cross kept guard for a little while over the empty pueblo; then, as </p><p>though they had seen enough, sank slowly down through their hatch- </p><p>ways, out of sight, into the nether world. </p><p>Lenina was still sobbing. "Too awful," she kept repeating, and all Ber- </p><p>nard's consolations were in vain. "Too awful! That blood!" She shud- </p><p>dered. "Oh, I wish I had my soma." </p><p>There was the sound of feet in the inner room. </p><p>Lenina did not move, but sat with her face in her hands, unseeing, </p><p>apart. Only Bernard turned round. </p><p>The dress of the young man who now stepped out on to the terrace </p><p>was Indian; but his plaited hair was straw-coloured, his eyes a pale </p><p>blue, and his skin a white skin, bronzed. </p><p>"Hullo. Good-morrow," said the stranger, in faultless but peculiar Eng- </p><p>lish. "You're civilized, aren't you? You come from the Other Place, out- </p><p>side the Reservation?" </p><p>"Who on earth ... ?" Bernard began in astonishment. </p><p>The young man sighed and shook his head. "A most unhappy gentle- </p><p>man." And, pointing to the bloodstains in the centre of the square, "Do </p><p>you see that damned spot?" he asked in a voice that trembled with </p><p>emotion. </p><p>"A gramme is better than a damn," said Lenina mechanically from be- </p><p>hind her hands. "I wish I had my soma!" </p><p>"I ought to have been there," the young man went on. "Why wouldn't </p><p>they let me be the sacrifice? I'd have gone round ten times-twelve, fif- </p><p>teen. Palowhtiwa only got as far as seven. They could have had twice </p><p>as much blood from me. The multitudinous seas incarnadine." He flung </p><p>out his arms in a lavish gesture; then, despairingly, let them fall again. </p><p>"But they wouldn't let me. They disliked me for my complexion. It's </p><p>always been like that. Always." Tears stood in the young man's eyes; </p><p>he was ashamed and turned away. </p><p>Astonishment made Lenina forget the deprivation of soma. She uncov- </p><p>ered her face and, for the first time, looked at the stranger. "Do you </p><p>mean to say that you wanted to be hit with that whip?" </p><p>Still averted from her, the young man made a sign of affirmation. "For </p><p>the sake of the pueblo-to make the rain come and the corn grow. And </p><p>to please Pookong and Jesus. And then to show that I can bear pain </p><p>without crying out. Yes," and his voice suddenly took on a new reso- </p><p>nance, he turned with a proud squaring of the shoulders, a proud, de- </p><p>fiant lifting of the chin "to show that I'm a man ... Oh!" He gave a gasp </p><p>and was silent, gaping. He had seen, for the first time in his life, the </p><p>face of a girl whose cheeks were not the colour of chocolate or dog- </p><p>skin, whose hair was auburn and permanently waved, and whose ex- </p><p>pression (amazing novelty!) was one of benevolent interest. Lenina </p><p>was smiling at him; such a nice-looking boy, she was thinking, and a </p><p>really beautiful body. The blood rushed up into the young man's face; </p><p>he dropped his eyes, raised them again for a moment only to find her </p><p>still smiling at him, and was so much overcome that he had to turn </p><p>away and pretend to be looking very hard at something on the other </p><p>side of the square. </p><p>Bernard's questions made a diversion. Who? How? When? From </p><p>where? Keeping his eyes fixed on Bernard's face (for so passionately </p><p>did he long to see Lenina smiling that he simply dared not look at her), </p><p>the young man tried to explain himself. Linda and he-Linda was his </p><p>mother (the word made Lenina look uncomfortable)-were strangers in </p><p>the Reservation. Linda had come from the Other Place long ago, before </p><p>he was born, with a man who was his father. (Bernard pricked up his </p><p>ears.) She had gone walking alone in those mountains over there to </p><p>the North, had fallen down a steep place and hurt her head. ("Go on, </p><p>go on," said Bernard excitedly.) Some hunters from Malpais had found </p><p>her and brought her to the pueblo. As for the man who was his father, </p><p>Linda had never seen him again. His name was Tomakin. (Yes, "Tho- </p><p>mas" was the D.H.C.'s first name.) He must have flown away, back to </p><p>the Other Place, away without her-a bad, unkind, unnatural man. </p><p>"And so I was born in Malpais," he concluded. "In Malpais." And he </p><p>shook his head. </p><p>The squalor of that little house on the outskirts of the pueblo! </p><p>A space of dust and rubbish separated it from the village. Two famine- </p><p>stricken dogs were nosing obscenely in the garbage at its door. Inside, </p><p>when they entered, the twilight stank and was loud with flies. </p><p>"Linda!" the young man called. </p><p>From the inner room a rather hoarse female voice said, "Coming." </p><p>They waited. In bowls on the floor were the remains of a meal, per- </p><p>haps of several meals. </p><p>The door opened. A very stout blonde squaw stepped across the </p><p>threshold and stood looking at the strangers staring incredulously, her </p><p>mouth open. Lenina noticed with disgust that two of the front teeth </p><p>were missing. And the colour of the ones that remained ... She shud- </p><p>dered. It was worse than the old man. So fat. And all the lines in her </p><p>face, the flabbiness, the wrinkles. And the sagging cheeks, with those </p><p>purplish blotches. And the red veins on her nose, the bloodshot eyes. </p><p>And that neck-that neck; and the blanket she wore over her head- </p><p>ragged and filthy. And under the brown sack-shaped tunic those enor- </p><p>mous breasts, the bulge of the stomach, the hips. Oh, much worse </p><p>than the old man, much worse! And suddenly the creature burst out in </p><p>a torrent of speech, rushed at her with outstretched arms and-Ford! </p><p>Ford! it was too revolting, in another moment she'd be sick-pressed </p><p>her against the bulge, the bosom, and began to kiss her. Ford! to kiss , </p><p>slobberingly, and smelt too horrible, obviously never had a bath, and </p><p>simply reeked of that beastly stuff that was put into Delta and Epsilon </p><p>bottles (no, it wasn't true about Bernard), positively stank of alcohol. </p><p>She broke away as quickly as she could. </p><p>A blubbered and distorted face confronted her; the creature was cry- </p><p>ing. </p><p>"Oh, my dear, my dear." The torrent of words flowed sobbingly. "If you</p><p>knew how glad-after all these years! A civilized face. Yes, and civilized </p><p>clothes. Because I thought I should never see a piece of real acetate </p><p>silk again." She fingered the sleeve of Lenina's shirt. The nails were </p><p>black. "And those adorable viscose velveteen shorts! Do you know, </p><p>dear, I've still got my old clothes, the ones I came in, put away in a </p><p>box. I'll show them you afterwards. Though, of course, the acetate has </p><p>all gone into holes. But such a lovely white bandolier-though I must </p><p>say your green morocco is even lovelier. Not that it did me much good, </p><p>that bandolier." Her tears began to flow again. "I suppose John told </p><p>you. What I had to suffer-and not a gramme of soma to be had. Only </p><p>a drink of mescal every now and then, when Pope used to bring it. </p><p>Pope is a boy I used to know. But it makes you feel so bad afterwards, </p><p>the mescal does, and you're sick with the peyotl ; besides it always </p><p>made that awful feeling of being ashamed much worse the next day. </p><p>And I was so ashamed. Just think of it: me, a Beta-having a baby: put </p><p>yourself in my place." (The mere suggestion made Lenina shudder.) </p><p>"Though it wasn't my fault, I swear; because I still don't know how it </p><p>happened, seeing that I did all the Malthusian Drill— you know, by </p><p>numbers, One, two, three, four, always, I swear it; but all the same it </p><p>happened, and of course there wasn't anything like an Abortion Centre </p><p>here. Is it still down in Chelsea, by the way?" she asked. Lenina nod- </p><p>ded. "And still floodlighted on Tuesdays and Fridays?" Lenina nodded </p><p>again. "That lovely pink glass tower!" Poor Linda lifted her face and </p><p>with closed eyes ecstatically contemplated the bright remembered im- </p><p>age. "And the river at night," she whispered. Great tears oozed slowly </p><p>out from behind her tight-shut eyelids. "And flying back in the evening </p><p>from Stoke Poges. And then a hot bath and vibro-vacuum massage ... </p><p>But there." She drew a deep breath, shook her head, opened her eyes </p><p>again, sniffed once or twice, then blew her nose on her fingers and </p><p>wiped them on the skirt of her tunic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said in re- </p><p>sponse to Lenina's involuntary grimace of disgust. "I oughtn't to have </p><p>done that. I'm sorry. But what are you to do when there aren't any </p><p>handkerchiefs? I remember how it used to upset me, all that dirt, and </p><p>nothing being aseptic. I had an awful cut on my head when they first </p><p>brought me here. You can't imagine what they used to put on it. Filth, </p><p>just filth. 'Civilization is Sterilization,' I used to say t them. And </p><p>'Streptocock-Gee to Banbury-T, to see a fine bathroom and W.C.' as </p><p>though they were children. But of course they didn't understand. How </p><p>should they? And in the end I suppose I got used to it. And anyhow, </p><p>how can you keep things clean when there isn't hot water laid on? And </p><p>look at these clothes. This beastly wool isn't like acetate. It lasts and </p><p>lasts. And you're supposed to mend it if it gets torn. But I'm a Beta; I </p><p>worked in the Fertilizing Room; nobody ever taught me to do anything </p><p>like that. It wasn't my business. Besides, it never used to be right to </p><p>mend clothes. Throw them away when they've got holes in them and </p><p>buy new. 'The more stitches, the less riches.' Isn't that right? Mend- </p><p>ing's anti-social. But it's all different here. It's like living with lunatics. </p><p>Everything they do is mad." She looked round; saw John and Bernard </p><p>had left them and were walking up and down in the dust and garbage </p><p>outside the house; but, none the less confidentially lowering her voice, </p><p>and leaning, while Lenina stiffened and shrank, so close that the blown </p><p>reek of embryo-poison stirred the hair on her cheek. "For instance," </p><p>she hoarsely whispered, "take the way they have one another here. </p><p>Mad, I tell you, absolutely mad. Everybody belongs to every one el- </p><p>se-don't they? don't they?" she insisted, tugging at Lenina's sleeve.</p><p>Lenina nodded her averted head, let out the breath she had been hold- </p><p>ing and managed to draw another one, relatively untainted. "Well, </p><p>here," the other went on, "nobody's supposed to belong to more than </p><p>one person. And if you have people in the ordinary way, the others </p><p>think you're wicked and anti-social. They hate and despise you. Once a </p><p>lot of women came and made a scene because their men came to see </p><p>me. Well, why not? And then they rushed at me ... No, it was too aw- </p><p>ful. I can't tell you about it." Linda covered her face with her hands </p><p>and shuddered. "They're so hateful, the women here. Mad, mad and </p><p>cruel. And of course they don't know anything about Malthusian Drill, </p><p>or bottles, or decanting, or anything of that sort. So they're having </p><p>children all the time-like dogs. It's too revolting. And to think that I ... </p><p>Oh, Ford, Ford, Ford! And yet John was a great comfort to me. I don't </p><p>know what I should have done without him. Even though he did get so </p><p>upset whenever a man ... Quite as a tiny boy, even. Once (but that was </p><p>when he was bigger) he tried to kill poor Waihusiwa-or was it Pope?- </p><p>just because I used to have them sometimes. Because I never could </p><p>make him understand that that was what civilized people ought to do. </p><p>Being mad's infectious I believe. Anyhow, John seems to have caught </p><p>it from the Indians. Because, of course, he was with them a lot. Even </p><p>though they always were so beastly to him and wouldn't let him do all </p><p>the things the other boys did. Which was a good thing in a way, be- </p><p>cause it made it easier for me to condition him a little. Though you've </p><p>no idea how difficult that is. There's so much one doesn't know; it </p><p>wasn't my business to know. I mean, when a child asks you how a </p><p>helicopter works or who made the world-well, what are you to answer </p><p>if you're a Beta and have always worked in the Fertilizing Room? What </p><p>are you to answer?" </p><p>Chapter Eight </p><p>OUTSIDE, in the dust and among the garbage (there were four dogs </p><p>now), Bernard and John were walking slowly up and down. </p><p>"So hard for me to realize," Bernard was saying, "to reconstruct. As </p><p>though we were living on different planets, in different centuries. A </p><p>mother, and all this dirt, and gods, and old age, and disease ..." He </p><p>shook his head. "It's almost inconceivable. I shall never understand, </p><p>unless you explain." </p><p>"Explain what?" </p><p>"This." He indicated the pueblo. "That." And it was the little house out- </p><p>side the village. "Everything. All your life." </p><p>"But what is there to say?" </p><p>"From the beginning. As far back as you can remember." </p><p>"As far back as I can remember." John frowned. There was a long si- </p><p>lence. </p><p>It was very hot. They had eaten a lot of tortillas and sweet corn. Linda</p><p>said, "Come and lie down, Baby." They lay down together in the big </p><p>bed. "Sing," and Linda sang. Sang "Streptocock-Gee to Banbury-T" and </p><p>"Bye Baby Banting, soon you'll need decanting." Her voice got fainter </p><p>and fainter ... </p><p>There was a loud noise, and he woke with a start. A man was saying </p><p>something to Linda, and Linda was laughing. She had pulled the blan- </p><p>ket up to her chin, but the man pulled it down again. His hair was like </p><p>two black ropes, and round his arm was a lovely silver bracelet with </p><p>blue stones in it. He liked the bracelet; but all the same, he was fright- </p><p>ened; he hid his face against Linda's body. Linda put her hand on him </p><p>and he felt safer. In those other words he did not understand so well, </p><p>she said to the man, "Not with John here." The man looked at him, </p><p>then again at Linda, and said a few words in a soft voice. Linda said, </p><p>"No." But the man bent over the bed towards him and his face was </p><p>huge, terrible; the black ropes of hair touched the blanket. "No," Linda </p><p>said again, and he felt her hand squeezing him more tightly. "No, no!" </p><p>But the man took hold of one of his arms, and it hurt. He screamed. </p><p>The man put up his other hand and lifted him up. Linda was still hold- </p><p>ing him, still saying, "No, no." The man said something short and an- </p><p>gry, and suddenly her hands were gone. "Linda, Linda." He kicked and </p><p>wriggled; but the man carried him across to the door, opened it, put </p><p>him down on the floor in the middle of the other room, and went away, </p><p>shutting the door behind him. He got up, he ran to the door. Standing </p><p>on tiptoe he could just reach the big wooden latch. He lifted it and </p><p>pushed; but the door wouldn't open. "Linda," he shouted. She didn't </p><p>answer. </p><p>He remembered a huge room, rather dark; and there were big wooden </p><p>things with strings fastened to them, and lots of women standing </p><p>round them-making blankets, Linda said. Linda told him to sit in the </p><p>corner with the other children, while she went and helped the women. </p><p>He played with the little boys for a long time. Suddenly people started </p><p>talking very loud, and there were the women pushing Linda away, and </p><p>Linda was crying. She went to the door and he ran after her. He asked </p><p>her why they were angry. "Because I broke something," she said. And </p><p>then she got angry too. "How should I know how to do their beastly </p><p>weaving?" she said. "Beastly savages." He asked her what savages </p><p>were. When they got back to their house, Pope was waiting at the </p><p>door, and he came in with them. He had a big gourd full of stuff that </p><p>looked like water; only it wasn't water, but something with a bad smell </p><p>that burnt your mouth and made you cough. Linda drank some and </p><p>Pope drank some, and then Linda laughed a lot and talked very loud; </p><p>and then she and Pope went into the other room. When Pope went </p><p>away, he went into the room. Linda was in bed and so fast asleep that </p><p>he couldn't wake her. </p><p>Pope used to come often. He said the stuff in the gourd was called </p><p>mescal ; but Linda said it ought to be called soma ; only it made you </p><p>feel ill afterwards. He hated Pope. He hated them all-all the men who </p><p>came to see Linda. One afternoon, when he had been playing with the </p><p>other children-it was cold, he remembered, and there was snow on </p><p>the mountains-he came back to the house and heard angry voices in</p><p>the bedroom. They were women's voices, and they said words he </p><p>didn't understand, but he knew they were dreadful words. Then sud- </p><p>denly, crash! something was upset; he heard people moving about </p><p>quickly, and there was another crash and then a noise like hitting a </p><p>mule, only not so bony; then Linda screamed. "Oh, don't, don't, </p><p>don't!" she said. He ran in. There were three women in dark blankets. </p><p>Linda was on the bed. One of the women was holding her wrists. An- </p><p>other was lying across her legs, so that she couldn't kick. The third </p><p>was hitting her with a whip. Once, twice, three times; and each time </p><p>Linda screamed. Crying, he tugged at the fringe of the woman's blan- </p><p>ket. "Please, please." With her free hand she held him away. The whip </p><p>came down again, and again Linda screamed. He caught hold of the </p><p>woman's enormous brown hand between his own and bit it with all his </p><p>might. She cried out, wrenched her hand free, and gave him such a </p><p>push that he fell down. While he was lying on the ground she hit him </p><p>three times with the whip. It hurt more than anything he had ever </p><p>felt-like fire. The whip whistled again, fell. But this time it was Linda </p><p>who screamed. </p><p>"But why did they want to hurt you, Linda?" he asked that night. He </p><p>was crying, because the red marks of the whip on his back still hurt so </p><p>terribly. But he was also crying because people were so beastly and </p><p>unfair, and because he was only a little boy and couldn't do anything </p><p>against them. Linda was crying too. She was grown up, but she wasn't </p><p>big enough to fight against three of them. It wasn't fair for her either. </p><p>"Why did they want to hurt you, Linda?" </p><p>"I don't know. How should I know?" It was difficult to hear what she </p><p>said, because she was lying on her stomach and her face was in the </p><p>pillow. "They say those men are their men," she went on; and she did </p><p>not seem to be talking to him at all; she seemed to be talking with </p><p>some one inside herself. A long talk which she didn't understand; and </p><p>in the end she started crying louder than ever. </p><p>"Oh, don't cry, Linda. Don't cry." </p><p>He pressed himself against her. He put his arm round her neck. Linda </p><p>cried out. "Oh, be careful. My shoulder! Oh!" and she pushed him </p><p>away, hard. His head banged against the wall. "Little idiot!" she </p><p>shouted; and then, suddenly, she began to slap him. Slap, slap ... </p><p>"Linda," he cried out. "Oh, mother, don't!" </p><p>"I'm not your mother. I won't be your mother." </p><p>"But, Linda ... Oh!" She slapped him on the cheek. </p><p>"Turned into a savage," she shouted. "Having young ones like an ani- </p><p>mal ... If it hadn't been for you, I might have gone to the Inspector, I </p><p>might have got away. But not with a baby. That would have been too </p><p>shameful." </p><p>He saw that she was going to hit him again, and lifted his arm to guard </p><p>his face. "Oh, don't, Linda, please don't." </p><p>"Little beast!" She pulled down his arm; his face was uncovered.</p><p>"Don't, Linda." He shut his eyes, expecting the blow. </p><p>But she didn't hit him. After a little time, he opened his eyes again and </p><p>saw that she was looking at him. He tried to smile at her. Suddenly she </p><p>put her arms round him and kissed him again and again. </p><p>Sometimes, for several days, Linda didn't get up at all. She lay in bed </p><p>and was sad. Or else she drank the stuff that Pope brought and </p><p>laughed a great deal and went to sleep. Sometimes she was sick. Of- </p><p>ten she forgot to wash him, and there was nothing to eat except cold </p><p>tortillas. He remembered the first time she found those little animals in </p><p>his hair, how she screamed and screamed. </p><p>The happiest times were when she told him about the Other Place. </p><p>"And you really can go flying, whenever you like?" </p><p>"Whenever you like." And she would tell him about the lovely music </p><p>that came out of a box, and all the nice games you could play, and the </p><p>delicious things to eat and drink, and the light that came when you </p><p>pressed a little thing in the wall, and the pictures that you could hear </p><p>and feel and smell, as well as see, and another box for making nice </p><p>smells, and the pink and green and blue and silver houses as high as </p><p>mountains, and everybody happy and no one ever sad or angry, and </p><p>every one belonging to every one else, and the boxes where you could </p><p>see and hear what was happening at the other side of the world, and </p><p>babies in lovely clean bottles-everything so clean, and no nasty </p><p>smells, no dirt at all-and people never lonely, but living together and </p><p>being so jolly and happy, like the summer dances here in Malpais, but </p><p>much happier, and the happiness being there every day, every day. ... </p><p>He listened by the hour. And sometimes, when he and the other chil- </p><p>dren were tired with too much playing, one of the old men of the </p><p>pueblo would talk to them, in those other words, of the great Trans- </p><p>former of the World, and of the long fight between Right Hand and Left </p><p>Hand, between Wet and Dry; of Awonawilona, who made a great fog </p><p>by thinking in the night, and then made the whole world out of the </p><p>fog; of Earth Mother and Sky Father; of Ahaiyuta and Marsailema, the </p><p>twins of War and Chance; of Jesus and Pookong; of Mary and Etsanat- </p><p>lehi, the woman who makes herself young again; of the Black Stone at </p><p>Laguna and the Great Eagle and Our Lady of Acoma. Strange stories, </p><p>all the more wonderful to him for being told in the other words and so </p><p>not fully understood. Lying in bed, he would think of Heaven and Lon- </p><p>don and Our Lady of Acoma and the rows and rows of babies in clean </p><p>bottles and Jesus flying up and Linda flying up and the great Director </p><p>of World Hatcheries and Awonawilona. </p><p>Lots of men came to see Linda. The boys began to point their fingers </p><p>at him. In the strange other words they said that Linda was bad; they </p><p>called her names he did not understand, but that he knew were bad </p><p>names. One day they sang a song about her, again and again. He </p><p>threw stones at them. They threw back; a sharp stone cut his cheek. </p><p>The blood wouldn't stop; he was covered with blood. </p><p>Linda taught him to read. With a piece of charcoal she drew pictures </p><p>on the wall-an animal sitting down, a baby inside a bottle; then she</p><p>wrote letters. THE CAT IS ON THE MAT THE TOT IS IN THE POT He </p><p>learned quickly and easily. When he knew how to read all the words </p><p>she wrote on the wall, Linda opened her big wooden box and pulled </p><p>out from under those funny little red trousers she never wore a thin lit- </p><p>tle book. He had often seen it before. "When you're bigger," she had </p><p>said, "you can read it." Well, now he was big enough. He was proud. </p><p>"I'm afraid you won't find it very exciting," she said. "But it's the only </p><p>thing I have." She sighed. "If only you could see the lovely reading </p><p>machines we used to have in London!" He began reading. The Chemi- </p><p>cal and Bacteriological Conditioning of the Embryo. Practical Instruc- </p><p>tions for Beta Embryo-Store Workers. It took him a quarter of an hour </p><p>to read the title alone. He threw the book on the floor. "Beastly, </p><p>beastly book!" he said, and began to cry. </p><p>The boys still sang their horrible song about Linda. Sometimes, too, </p><p>they laughed at him for being so ragged. When he tore his clothes, </p><p>Linda did not know how to mend them. In the Other Place, she told </p><p>him, people threw away clothes with holes in them and got new ones. </p><p>"Rags, rags!" the boys used to shout at him. "But I can read," he said </p><p>to himself, "and they can't. They don't even know what reading is." It </p><p>was fairly easy, if he thought hard enough about the reading, to pre- </p><p>tend that he didn't mind when they made fun of him. He asked Linda </p><p>to give him the book again. </p><p>The more the boys pointed and sang, the harder he read. Soon he </p><p>could read all the words quite well. Even the longest. But what did </p><p>they mean? He asked Linda; but even when she could answer it didn't </p><p>seem to make it very clear, And generally she couldn't answer at all. </p><p>"What are chemicals?" he would ask. </p><p>"Oh, stuff like magnesium salts, and alcohol for keeping the Deltas and </p><p>Epsilons small and backward, and calcium carbonate for bones, and all </p><p>that sort of thing." </p><p>"But how do you make chemicals, Linda? Where do they come from?" </p><p>"Well, I don't know. You get them out of bottles. And when the bottles </p><p>are empty, you send up to the Chemical Store for more. It's the </p><p>Chemical Store people who make them, I suppose. Or else they send </p><p>to the factory for them. I don't know. I never did any chemistry. My </p><p>job was always with the embryos. It was the same with everything </p><p>else he asked about. Linda never seemed to know. The old men of the </p><p>pueblo had much more definite answers. </p><p>"The seed of men and all creatures, the seed of the sun and the seed </p><p>of earth and the seed of the sky-Awonawilona made them all out of </p><p>the Fog of Increase. Now the world has four wombs; and he laid the </p><p>seeds in the lowest of the four wombs. And gradually the seeds began </p><p>to grow ..." </p><p>One day (John calculated later that it must have been soon after his </p><p>twelfth birthday) he came home and found a book that he had never</p><p>seen before lying on the floor in the bedroom. It was a thick book and </p><p>looked very old. The binding had been eaten by mice; some of its </p><p>pages were loose and crumpled. He picked it up, looked at the title- </p><p>page: the book was called The Complete Works of William Shake- </p><p>speare. </p><p>Linda was lying on the bed, sipping that horrible stinking mescal out of </p><p>a cup. "Pope brought it," she said. Her voice was thick and hoarse like </p><p>somebody else's voice. "It was lying in one of the chests of the Ante- </p><p>lope Kiva. It's supposed to have been there for hundreds of years. I </p><p>expect it's true, because I looked at it, and it seemed to be full of non- </p><p>sense. Uncivilized. Still, it'll be good enough for you to practice your </p><p>reading on." She took a last sip, set the cup down on the floor beside </p><p>the bed, turned over on her side, hiccoughed once or twice and went </p><p>to sleep. </p><p>He opened the book at random. </p><p>Nay , but to live </p><p>In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, </p><p>Stew'd in corruption , honeying and making love </p><p>Over the nasty sty ... </p><p>The strange words rolled through his mind; rumbled, like talking thun- </p><p>der; like the drums at the summer dances, if the drums could have </p><p>spoken; like the men singing the Corn Song, beautiful, beautiful, so </p><p>that you cried; like old Mitsima saying magic over his feathers and his </p><p>carved sticks and his bits of bone and stone-kiathla tsilu silokwe si- </p><p>lokwe silokwe. Kiai silu silu, tsithl-but better than Mitsima's magic, be- </p><p>cause it meant more, because it talked to him, talked wonderfully and </p><p>only half-understandably, a terrible beautiful magic, about Linda; </p><p>about Linda lying there snoring, with the empty cup on the floor beside </p><p>the bed; about Linda and Pope, Linda and Pope. </p><p>He hated Pope more and more. A man can smile and smile and be a </p><p>villain. Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain. What did </p><p>the words exactly mean? He only half knew. But their magic was </p><p>strong and went on rumbling in his head, and somehow it was as </p><p>though he had never really hated Pope before; never really hated him </p><p>because he had never been able to say how much he hated him. But </p><p>now he had these words, these words like drums and singing and </p><p>magic. These words and the strange, strange story out of which they </p><p>were taken (he couldn't make head or tail of it, but it was wonderful, </p><p>wonderful all the same)-they gave him a reason for hating Pope; and </p><p>they made his hatred more real; they even made Pope himself more </p><p>real. </p><p>One day, when he came in from playing, the door of the inner room </p><p>was open, and he saw them lying together on the bed, asleep-white </p><p>Linda and Pope almost black beside her, with one arm under her </p><p>shoulders and the other dark hand on her breast, and one of the plaits </p><p>of his long hair lying across her throat, like a black snake trying to </p><p>strangle her. Pope's gourd and a cup were standing on the floor near </p><p>the bed. Linda was snoring.</p><p>His heart seemed to have disappeared and left a hole. He was empty. </p><p>Empty, and cold, and rather sick, and giddy. He leaned against the wall </p><p>to steady himself. Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous ... Like drums, </p><p>like the men singing for the corn, like magic, the words repeated and </p><p>repeated themselves in his head. From being cold he was suddenly </p><p>hot. His cheeks burnt with the rush of blood, the room swam and </p><p>darkened before his eyes. He ground his teeth. "I'll kill him, I'll kill </p><p>him, I'll kill him," he kept saying. And suddenly there were more </p><p>words. </p><p>When he is drunk asleep , or in his rage </p><p>Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed ... </p><p>The magic was on his side, the magic explained and gave orders. He </p><p>stepped back in the outer room. "When he is drunk asleep ..." The </p><p>knife for the meat was lying on the floor near the fireplace. He picked </p><p>it up and tiptoed to the door again. "When he is drunk asleep, drunk </p><p>asleep ..." He ran across the room and stabbed-oh, the bloodl-stabbed </p><p>again, as Pope heaved out of his sleep, lifted his hand to stab once </p><p>more, but found his wrist caught, held and-oh, oh!-twisted. He </p><p>couldn't move, he was trapped, and there were Pope's small black </p><p>eyes, very close, staring into his own. He looked away. There were two </p><p>cuts on Pope's left shoulder. "Oh, look at the blood!" Linda was crying. </p><p>"Look at the blood!" She had never been able to bear the sight of </p><p>blood. Pope lifted his other hand-to strike him, he thought. He stiff- </p><p>ened to receive the blow. But the hand only took him under the chin </p><p>and turned his face, so that he had to look again into Pope's eyes. For </p><p>a long time, for hours and hours. And suddenly-he couldn't help it-he </p><p>began to cry. Pope burst out laughing. "Go," he said, in the other In- </p><p>dian words. "Go, my brave Ahaiyuta." He ran out into the other room </p><p>to hide his tears. </p><p>"You are fifteen," said old Mitsima, in the Indian words. "Now I may </p><p>teach you to work the clay." </p><p>Squatting by the river, they worked together. </p><p>"First of all," said Mitsima, taking a lump of the wetted clay between </p><p>his hands, "we make a little moon." The old man squeezed the lump </p><p>into a disk, then bent up the edges, the moon became a shallow cup. </p><p>Slowly and unskilfully he imitated the old man's delicate gestures. </p><p>"A moon, a cup, and now a snake." Mitsima rolled out another piece of </p><p>clay into a long flexible cylinder, trooped it into a circle and pressed it </p><p>on to the rim of the cup. "Then another snake. And another. And an- </p><p>other." Round by round, Mitsima built up the sides of the pot; it was </p><p>narrow, it bulged, it narrowed again towards the neck. Mitsima </p><p>squeezed and patted, stroked and scraped; and there at last it stood, </p><p>in shape the familiar water pot of Malpais, but creamy white instead of </p><p>black, and still soft to the touch. The crooked parody of Mitsima's, his </p><p>own stood beside it. Looking at the two pots, he had to laugh. </p><p>"But the next one will be better," he said, and began to moisten an- </p><p>other piece of clay. </p><p>To fashion, to give form, to feel his fingers gaining in skill and pow- </p><p>er-this gave him an extraordinary pleasure. "A, B, C, Vitamin D," he </p><p>sang to himself as he worked. "The fat's in the liver, the cod's in the </p><p>sea." And Mitsima also sang-a song about killing a bear. They worked </p><p>all day, and all day he was filled with an intense, absorbing happiness. </p><p>"Next winter," said old Mitsima, "I will teach you to make the bow." </p><p>He stood for a long time outside the house, and at last the ceremonies </p><p>within were finished. The door opened; they came out. Kothlu came </p><p>first, his right hand out-stretched and tightly closed, as though over </p><p>some precious jewel. Her clenched hand similarly outstretched, </p><p>Kiakime followed. They walked in silence, and in silence, behind them, </p><p>came the brothers and sisters and cousins and all the troop of old peo- </p><p>ple. </p><p>They walked out of the pueblo, across the mesa. At the edge of the </p><p>cliff they halted, facing the early morning sun. Kothlu opened his hand. </p><p>A pinch of corn meal lay white on the palm; he breathed on it, mur- </p><p>mured a few words, then threw it, a handful of white dust, towards the </p><p>sun. Kiakime did the same. Then Khakime's father stepped forward, </p><p>and holding up a feathered prayer stick, made a long prayer, then </p><p>threw the stick after the corn meal. </p><p>"It is finished," said old Mitsima in a loud voice. "They are married." </p><p>"Well," said Linda, as they turned away, "all I can say is, it does seem </p><p>a lot of fuss to make about so little. In civilized countries, when a boy </p><p>wants to have a girl, he just ... But where are you going, John?" </p><p>He paid no attention to her calling, but ran on, away, away, anywhere </p><p>to be by himself. </p><p>It is finished Old Mitsima's words repeated themselves in his mind. </p><p>Finished, finished ... In silence and from a long way off, but violently, </p><p>desperately, hopelessly, he had loved Kiakime. And now it was fin- </p><p>ished. He was sixteen. </p><p>At the full moon, in the Antelope Kiva, secrets would be told, secrets </p><p>would be done and borne. They would go down, boys, into the kiva </p><p>and come out again, men. The boys were all afraid and at the same </p><p>time impatient. And at last it was the day. The sun went down, the </p><p>moon rose. He went with the others. Men were standing, dark, at the </p><p>entrance to the kiva; the ladder went down into the red lighted depths. </p><p>Already the leading boys had begun to climb down. Suddenly, one of </p><p>the men stepped forward, caught him by the arm, and pulled him out </p><p>of the ranks. He broke free and dodged back into his place among the </p><p>others. This time the man struck him, pulled his hair. "Not for you, </p><p>white-hair!" "Not for the son of the she-dog," said one of the other </p><p>men. The boys laughed. "Go!" And as he still hovered on the fringes of </p><p>the group, "Go!" the men shouted again. One of them bent down, took </p><p>a stone, threw it. "Go, go, go!" There was a shower of stones. Bleed- </p><p>ing, he ran away into the darkness. From the red-lit kiva came the </p><p>noise of singing. The last of the boys had climbed down the ladder. He </p><p>was all alone. </p><p>All alone, outside the pueblo, on the bare plain of the mesa. The rock </p><p>was like bleached bones in the moonlight. Down in the valley, the</p><p>coyotes were howling at the moon. The bruises hurt him, the cuts </p><p>were still bleeding; but it was not for pain that he sobbed; it was be- </p><p>cause he was all alone, because he had been driven out, alone, into </p><p>this skeleton world of rocks and moonlight. At the edge of the preci- </p><p>pice he sat down. The moon was behind him; he looked down into the </p><p>black shadow of the mesa, into the black shadow of death. He had </p><p>only to take one step, one little jump. ... He held out his right hand in </p><p>the moonlight. From the cut on his wrist the blood was still oozing. </p><p>Every few seconds a drop fell, dark, almost colourless in the dead </p><p>light. Drop, drop, drop. To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow ... </p><p>He had discovered Time and Death and God. </p><p>"Alone, always alone," the young man was saying. </p><p>The words awoke a plaintive echo in Bernard's mind. Alone, alone ... </p><p>"So am I," he said, on a gush of confidingness. "Terribly alone." </p><p>"Are you?" John looked surprised. "I thought that in the Other Place ... </p><p>I mean, Linda always said that nobody was ever alone there." </p><p>Bernard blushed uncomfortably. "You see," he said, mumbling and with </p><p>averted eyes, "I'm rather different from most people, I suppose. If one </p><p>happens to be decanted different ..." </p><p>"Yes, that's just it." The young man nodded. "If one's different, one's </p><p>bound to be lonely. They're beastly to one. Do you know, they shut me </p><p>out of absolutely everything? When the other boys were sent out to </p><p>spend the night on the mountains-you know, when you have to dream </p><p>which your sacred animal is-they wouldn't let me go with the others; </p><p>they wouldn't tell me any of the secrets. I did it by myself, though," he </p><p>added. "Didn't eat anything for five days and then went out one night </p><p>alone into those mountains there." He pointed. </p><p>Patronizingly, Bernard smiled. "And did you dream of anything?" he </p><p>asked. </p><p>The other nodded. "But I mustn't tell you what." He was silent for a lit- </p><p>tle; then, in a low voice, "Once," he went on, "I did something that </p><p>none of the others did: I stood against a rock in the middle of the day, </p><p>in summer, with my arms out, like Jesus on the Cross." </p><p>"What on earth for?" </p><p>"I wanted to know what it was like being crucified. Hanging there in </p><p>the sun ..." </p><p>"But why?" </p><p>"Why? Well ..." He hesitated. "Because I felt I ought to. If Jesus could </p><p>stand it. And then, if one has done something wrong ... Besides, I was </p><p>unhappy; that was another reason." </p><p>"It seems a funny way of curing your unhappiness," said Bernard. But </p><p>on second thoughts he decided that there was, after all, some sense in </p><p>it. Better than taking soma ... </p><p>"I fainted after a time," said the young man. "Fell down on my face. </p><p>Do you see the mark where I cut myself?" He lifted the thick yellow </p><p>hair from his forehead. The scar showed, pale and puckered, on his </p><p>right temple. </p><p>Bernard looked, and then quickly, with a little shudder, averted his </p><p>eyes. His conditioning had made him not so much pitiful as profoundly </p><p>squeamish. The mere suggestion of illness or wounds was to him not </p><p>only horrifying, but even repulsive and rather disgusting. Like dirt, or </p><p>deformity, or old age. Hastily he changed the subject. </p><p>"I wonder if you'd like to come back to London with us?" he asked, </p><p>making the first move in a campaign whose strategy he had been se- </p><p>cretly elaborating ever since, in the little house, he had realized who </p><p>the "father" of this young savage must be. "Would you like that?" </p><p>The young man's face lit up. "Do you really mean it?" </p><p>"Of course; if I can get permission, that is." </p><p>"Linda too?" </p><p>"Well ..." He hesitated doubtfully. That revolting creature! No, it was </p><p>impossible. Unless, unless ... It suddenly occurred to Bernard that her </p><p>very revoltingness might prove an enormous asset. "But of course!" he </p><p>cried, making up for his first hesitations with an excess of noisy cor- </p><p>diality. </p><p>The young man drew a deep breath. "To think it should be coming </p><p>true-what I've dreamt of all my life. Do you remember what Miranda </p><p>says?" </p><p>"Who's Miranda?" </p><p>But the young man had evidently not heard the question. "O wonder!" </p><p>he was saying; and his eyes shone, his face was brightly flushed. "How </p><p>many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is!" </p><p>The flush suddenly deepened; he was thinking of Lenina, of an angel in </p><p>bottle-green viscose, lustrous with youth and skin food, plump, be- </p><p>nevolently smiling. His voice faltered. "O brave new world," he began, </p><p>then-suddenly interrupted himself; the blood had left his cheeks; he </p><p>was as pale as paper. </p><p>"Are you married to her?" he asked. </p><p>"Am I what?" </p><p>"Married. You know-for ever. They say 'for ever' in the Indian words; it </p><p>can't be broken." </p><p>"Ford, no!" Bernard couldn't help laughing. </p><p>John also laughed, but for another reason-laughed for pure joy. </p><p>"O brave new world," he repeated. "O brave new world that has such </p><p>people in it. Let's start at once." </p><p>"You have a most peculiar way of talking sometimes," said Bernard, </p><p>staring at the young man in perplexed astonishment. "And, anyhow, </p><p>hadn't you better wait till you actually see the new world?" </p><p>LENINA felt herself entitled, after this day of queerness and horror, to </p><p>a complete and absolute holiday. As soon as they got back to the rest- </p><p>house, she swallowed six half-gramme tablets of soma, lay down on </p><p>her bed, and within ten minutes had embarked for lunar eternity. It </p><p>would be eighteen hours at the least before she was in time again. </p><p>Bernard meanwhile lay pensive and wide-eyed in the dark. It was long </p><p>after midnight before he fell asleep. Long after midnight; but his in- </p><p>somnia had not been fruitless; he had a plan. </p><p>Punctually, on the following morning, at ten o'clock, the green- </p><p>uniformed octoroon stepped out of his helicopter. Bernard was waiting </p><p>for him among the agaves. </p><p>"Miss Crowne's gone on soma- holiday," he explained. "Can hardly be </p><p>back before five. Which leaves us seven hours." </p><p>He could fly to Santa Fe, do all the business he had to do, and be in </p><p>Malpais again long before she woke up. </p><p>"She'll be quite safe here by herself?" </p><p>"Safe as helicopters," the octoroon assured him. </p><p>They climbed into the machine and started off at once. At ten thirty- </p><p>four they landed on the roof of the Santa Fe Post Office; at ten thirty- </p><p>seven Bernard had got through to the World Controller's Office in </p><p>Whitehall; at ten thirty-seven he was speaking to his fordship's fourth </p><p>personal secretary; at ten forty-four he was repeating his story to the </p><p>first secretary, and at ten forty-seven and a half it was the deep, reso- </p><p>nant voice of Mustapha Mond himself that sounded in his ears. </p><p>"I ventured to think," stammered Bernard, "that your fordship might </p><p>find the matter of sufficient scientific interest ..." </p><p>"Yes, I do find it of sufficient scientific interest," said the deep voice. </p><p>"Bring these two individuals back to London with you." </p><p>"Your fordship is aware that I shall need a special permit ..." </p><p>"The necessary orders," said Mustapha Mond, "are being sent to the </p><p>Warden of the Reservation at this moment. You will proceed at once to </p><p>the Warden's Office. Good-morning, Mr. Marx." </p><p>There was silence. Bernard hung up the receiver and hurried up to the </p><p>roof.</p><p>"Warden's Office," he said to the Gamma-green octoroon. </p><p>At ten fifty-four Bernard was shaking hands with the Warden. </p><p>"Delighted, Mr. Marx, delighted." His boom was deferential. "We have </p><p>just received special orders ..." </p><p>"I know," said Bernard, interrupting him. "I was talking to his fordship </p><p>on the phone a moment ago." His bored tone implied that he was in </p><p>the habit of talking to his fordship every day of the week. He dropped </p><p>into a chair. "If you'll kindly take all the necessary steps as soon as </p><p>possible. As soon as possible," he emphatically repeated. He was thor- </p><p>oughly enjoying himself. </p><p>At eleven three he had all the necessary papers in his pocket. </p><p>"So long," he said patronizingly to the Warden, who had accompanied </p><p>him as far as the lift gates. "So long." </p><p>He walked across to the hotel, had a bath, a vibro-vac massage, and </p><p>an electrolytic shave, listened in to the morning's news, looked in for </p><p>half an hour on the televisor, ate a leisured luncheon, and at half-past </p><p>two flew back with the octoroon to Malpais. </p><p>The young man stood outside the rest-house. </p><p>"Bernard," he called. "Bernard!" There was no answer. </p><p>Noiseless on his deerksin moccasins, he ran up the steps and tried the </p><p>door. The door was locked. </p><p>They were gone! Gone! It was the most terrible thing that had ever </p><p>happened to him. She had asked him to come and see them, and now </p><p>they were gone. He sat down on the steps and cried. </p><p>Half an hour later it occurred to him to look through the window. The </p><p>first thing he saw was a green suit-case, with the initials L.C. painted </p><p>on the lid. Joy flared up like fire within him. He picked up a stone. The </p><p>smashed glass tinkled on the floor. A moment later he was inside the </p><p>room. He opened the green suit-case; and all at once he was breathing </p><p>Lenina's perfume, filling his lungs with her essential being. His heart </p><p>beat wildly; for a moment he was almost faint. Then, bending over the </p><p>precious box, he touched, he lifted into the light, he examined. The </p><p>zippers on Lenina's spare pair of viscose velveteen shorts were at first </p><p>a puzzle, then solved, a delight. Zip, and then zip; zip, and then zip; </p><p>he was enchanted. Her green slippers were the most beautiful things </p><p>he had ever seen. He unfolded a pair of zippicamiknicks, blushed, put </p><p>them hastily away again; but kissed a perfumed acetate handkerchief </p><p>and wound a scarf round his neck. Opening a box, he spilt a cloud of </p><p>scented powder. His hands were floury with the stuff. He wiped them </p><p>on his chest, on his shoulders, on his bare arms. Delicious perfume! He </p><p>shut his eyes; he rubbed his cheek against his own powdered arm. </p><p>Touch of smooth skin against his face, scent in his nostrils of musky </p><p>dust-her real presence. "Lenina," he whispered. "Lenina!" </p><p>A noise made him start, made him guiltily turn. He crammed up his </p><p>thieveries into the suit-case and shut the lid; then listened again,</p><p>looked. Not a sign of life, not a sound. And yet he had certainly heard </p><p>something-something like a sigh, something like the creak of a board. </p><p>He tiptoed to the door and, cautiously opening it, found himself looking </p><p>on to a broad landing. On the opposite side of the landing was another </p><p>door, ajar. He stepped out, pushed, peeped. </p><p>There, on a low bed, the sheet flung back, dressed in a pair of pink </p><p>one-piece zippyjamas, lay Lenina, fast asleep and so beautiful in the </p><p>midst of her curls, so touchingly childish with her pink toes and her </p><p>grave sleeping face, so trustful in the helplessness of her limp hands </p><p>and melted limbs, that the tears came to his eyes. </p><p>With an infinity of quite unnecessary precautions-for nothing short of a </p><p>pistol shot could have called Lenina back from her soma-holiday before </p><p>the appointed time-he entered the room, he knelt on the floor beside </p><p>the bed. He gazed, he clasped his hands, his lips moved. "Her eyes," </p><p>he murmured, </p><p>" Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice; </p><p>Handiest in thy discourse O! that her hand, </p><p>In whose comparison all whites are ink </p><p>Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure </p><p>The cygnet's down is harsh ..." </p><p>A fly buzzed round her; he waved it away. "Flies," he remembered, </p><p>"On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand, may seize </p><p>And steal immortal blessing from her lips, </p><p>Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, </p><p>Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin. " </p><p>Very slowly, with the hesitating gesture of one who reaches forward to </p><p>stroke a shy and possibly rather dangerous bird, he put out his hand. </p><p>It hung there trembling, within an inch of those limp fingers, on the </p><p>verge of contact. Did he dare? Dare to profane with his unworthiest </p><p>hand that ... No, he didn't. The bird was too dangerous. His hand </p><p>dropped back. How beautiful she was! How beautiful! </p><p>Then suddenly he found himself reflecting that he had only to take </p><p>hold of the zipper at her neck and give one long, strong pull ... He shut </p><p>his eyes, he shook his head with the gesture of a dog shaking its ears </p><p>as it emerges from the water. Detestable thought! He was ashamed of </p><p>himself. Pure and vestal modesty ... </p><p>There was a humming in the air. Another fly trying to steal immortal </p><p>blessings? A wasp? He looked, saw nothing. The humming grew louder </p><p>and louder, localized itself as being outside the shuttered windows. The </p><p>plane! In a panic, he scrambled to his feet and ran into the other </p><p>room, vaulted through the open window, and hurrying along the path </p><p>between the tall agaves was in time to receive Bernard Marx as he </p><p>climbed out of the helicopter.</p><p>THE HANDS of all the four thousand electric clocks in all the Blooms- </p><p>bury Centre's four thousand rooms marked twenty-seven minutes past </p><p>two. "This hive of industry," as the Director was fond of calling it, was </p><p>in the full buzz of work. Every one was busy, everything in ordered </p><p>motion. Under the microscopes, their long tails furiously lashing, </p><p>spermatozoa were burrowing head first into eggs; and, fertilized, the </p><p>eggs were expanding, dividing, or if bokanovskified, budding and </p><p>breaking up into whole populations of separate embryos. From the So- </p><p>cial Predestination Room the escalators went rumbling down into the </p><p>basement, and there, in the crimson darkness, stewingly warm on </p><p>their cushion of peritoneum and gorged with blood-surrogate and </p><p>hormones, the foetuses grew and grew or, poisoned, languished into a </p><p>stunted Epsilonhood. With a faint hum and rattle the moving racks </p><p>crawled imperceptibly through the weeks and the recapitulated aeons </p><p>to where, in the Decanting Room, the newly-unbottled babes uttered </p><p>their first yell of horror and amazement. </p><p>The dynamos purred in the sub-basement, the lifts rushed up and </p><p>down. On all the eleven floors of Nurseries it was feeding time. From </p><p>eighteen hundred bottles eighteen hundred carefully labelled infants </p><p>were simultaneously sucking down their pint of pasteurized external </p><p>secretion. </p><p>Above them, in ten successive layers of dormitory, the little boys and </p><p>girls who were still young enough to need an afternoon sleep were as </p><p>busy as every one else, though they did not know it, listening uncon- </p><p>sciously to hypnopaedic lessons in hygiene and sociability, in class- </p><p>consciousness and the toddler's love-life. Above these again were the </p><p>playrooms where, the weather having turned to rain, nine hundred </p><p>older children were amusing themselves with bricks and clay model- </p><p>ling, hunt-the-zipper, and erotic play. </p><p>Buzz, buzz! the hive was humming, busily, joyfully. Blithe was the </p><p>singing of the young girls over their test-tubes, the Predestinators </p><p>whistled as they worked, and in the Decanting Room what glorious </p><p>jokes were cracked above the empty bottles! But the Director's face, </p><p>as he entered the Fertilizing Room with Henry Foster, was grave, </p><p>wooden with severity. </p><p>"A public example," he was saying. "In this room, because it contains </p><p>more high-caste workers than any other in the Centre. I have told him </p><p>to meet me here at half-past two." </p><p>"He does his work very well," put in Henry, with hypocritical generos- </p><p>ity. </p><p>"I know. But that's all the more reason for severity. His intellectual </p><p>eminence carries with it corresponding moral responsibilities. The </p><p>greater a man's talents, the greater his power to lead astray. It is bet- </p><p>ter that one should suffer than that many should be corrupted. Con- </p><p>sider the matter dispassionately, Mr. Foster, and you will see that no </p><p>offence is so heinous as unorthodoxy of behaviour. Murder kills only </p><p>the individual-and, after all, what is an individual?" With a sweeping </p><p>gesture he indicated the rows of microscopes, the test-tubes, the incu-</p><p>bators. "We can make a new one with the greatest ease-as many as </p><p>we like. Unorthodoxy threatens more than the life of a mere individual; </p><p>it strikes at Society itself. Yes, at Society itself," he repeated. "Ah, but </p><p>here he comes." </p><p>Bernard had entered the room and was advancing between the rows of </p><p>fertilizers towards them. A veneer of jaunty self-confidence thinly con- </p><p>cealed his nervousness. The voice in which he said, "Good-morning, </p><p>Director," was absurdly too loud; that in which, correcting his mistake, </p><p>he said, "You asked me to come and speak to you here," ridiculously </p><p>soft, a squeak. </p><p>"Yes, Mr. Marx," said the Director portentously. "I did ask you to come </p><p>to me here. You returned from your holiday last night, I understand." </p><p>"Yes," Bernard answered. </p><p>"Yes-s," repeated the Director, lingering, a serpent, on the "s." Then, </p><p>suddenly raising his voice, "Ladies and gentlemen," he trumpeted, "la- </p><p>dies and gentlemen." </p><p>The singing of the girls over their test-tubes, the preoccupied whistling </p><p>of the Microscopists, suddenly ceased. There was a profound silence; </p><p>every one looked round. </p><p>"Ladies and gentlemen," the Director repeated once more, "excuse me </p><p>for thus interrupting your labours. A painful duty constrains me. The </p><p>security and stability of Society are in danger. Yes, in danger, ladies </p><p>and gentlemen. This man," he pointed accusingly at Bernard, "this </p><p>man who stands before you here, this Alpha-Plus to whom so much </p><p>has been given, and from whom, in consequence, so much must be </p><p>expected, this colleague of yours-or should I anticipate and say this </p><p>ex-colleague?-has grossly betrayed the trust imposed in him. By his </p><p>heretical views on sport and soma, by the scandalous unorthodoxy of </p><p>his sex-life, by his refusal to obey the teachings of Our Ford and be- </p><p>have out of office hours, 'even as a little infant,'" (here the Director </p><p>made the sign of the T), "he has proved himself an enemy of Society, </p><p>a subverter, ladies and gentlemen, of all Order and Stability, a con- </p><p>spirator against Civilization itself. For this reason I propose to dismiss </p><p>him, to dismiss him with ignominy from the post he has held in this </p><p>Centre; I propose forthwith to apply for his transference to a Subcen- </p><p>tre of the lowest order and, that his punishment may serve the best </p><p>interest of Society, as far as possible removed from any important </p><p>Centre of population. In Iceland he will have small opportunity to lead </p><p>others astray by his unfordly example." The Director paused; then, </p><p>folding his arms, he turned impressively to Bernard. "Marx," he said, </p><p>"can you show any reason why I should not now execute the judgment </p><p>passed upon you?" </p><p>"Yes, I can," Bernard answered in a very loud voice. </p><p>Somewhat taken aback, but still majestically, "Then show it," said the </p><p>Director. </p><p>"Certainly. But it's in the passage. One moment." Bernard hurried to </p><p>the door and threw it open. "Come in," he commanded, and the reason </p><p>came in and showed itself. </p><p>There was a gasp, a murmur of astonishment and horror; a young girl </p><p>screamed; standing on a chair to get a better view some one upset </p><p>two test-tubes full of spermatozoa. Bloated, sagging, and among those </p><p>firm youthful bodies, those undistorted faces, a strange and terrifying </p><p>monster of middle-agedness, Linda advanced into the room, coquet- </p><p>tishly smiling her broken and discoloured smile, and rolling as she </p><p>walked, with what was meant to be a voluptuous undulation, her </p><p>enormous haunches. Bernard walked beside her. </p><p>"There he is," he said, pointing at the Director. </p><p>"Did you think I didn't recognize him?" Linda asked indignantly; then, </p><p>turning to the Director, "Of course I knew you; Tomakin, I should have </p><p>known you anywhere, among a thousand. But perhaps you've forgot- </p><p>ten me. Don't you remember? Don't you remember, Tomakin? Your </p><p>Linda." She stood looking at him, her head on one side, still smiling, </p><p>but with a smile that became progressively, in face of the Director's </p><p>expression of petrified disgust, less and less self-confident, that wa- </p><p>vered and finally went out. "Don't you remember, Tomakin?" she re- </p><p>peated in a voice that trembled. Her eyes were anxious, agonized. The </p><p>blotched and sagging face twisted grotesquely into the grimace of ex- </p><p>treme grief. "Tomakin!" She held out her arms. Some one began to tit- </p><p>ter. </p><p>"What's the meaning," began the Director, "of this monstrous ..." </p><p>"Tomakin!" She ran forward, her blanket trailing behind her, threw her </p><p>arms round his neck, hid her face on his chest. </p><p>A howl of laughter went up irrepressibly. </p><p>"... this monstrous practical joke," the Director shouted. </p><p>Red in the face, he tried to disengage himself from her embrace. Des- </p><p>perately she clung. "But I'm Linda, I'm Linda.'" The laughter drowned </p><p>her voice. "You made me have a baby," she screamed above the up- </p><p>roar. There was a sudden and appalling hush; eyes floated uncom- </p><p>fortably, not knowing where to look. The Director went suddenly pale, </p><p>stopped struggling and stood, his hands on her wrists, staring down at </p><p>her, horrified. "Yes, a baby-and I was its mother." She flung the ob- </p><p>scenity like a challenge into the outraged silence; then, suddenly </p><p>breaking away from him, ashamed, ashamed, covered her face with </p><p>her hands, sobbing. "It wasn't my fault, Tomakin. Because I always did </p><p>my drill, didn't I? Didn't I? Always ... I don't know how ... If you knew </p><p>how awful, Tomakin ... But he was a comfort to me, all the same." </p><p>Turning towards the door, "John!" she called. "John!" </p><p>He came in at once, paused for a moment just inside the door, looked </p><p>round, then soft on his moccasined feet strode quickly across the </p><p>room, fell on his knees in front of the Director, and said in a clear </p><p>voice: "My father!" </p><p>The word (for "father" was not so much obscene as-with its connota- </p><p>tion of something at one remove from the loathsomeness and moral </p><p>obliquity of child-bearing-merely gross, a scatological rather than a </p><p>pornographic impropriety); the comically smutty word relieved what </p><p>had become a quite intolerable tension. Laughter broke out, enor- </p><p>mous, almost hysterical, peal after peal, as though it would never </p><p>stop. My father-and it was the Director! My father! Oh Ford, oh Ford! </p><p>That was really too good. The whooping and the roaring renewed </p><p>themselves, faces seemed on the point of disintegration, tears were </p><p>streaming. Six more test-tubes of spermatozoa were upset. My father! </p><p>Pale, wild-eyed, the Director glared about him in an agony of bewil- </p><p>dered humiliation. </p><p>My father! The laughter, which had shown signs of dying away, broke </p><p>out again more loudly than ever. He put his hands over his ears and </p><p>rushed out of the room. </p><p>AFTER the scene in the Fertilizing Room, all upper-caste London was </p><p>wild to see this delicious creature who had fallen on his knees before </p><p>the Director of Flatcheries and Conditioning-or rather the ex-Director, </p><p>for the poor man had resigned immediately afterwards and never set </p><p>foot inside the Centre again-had flopped down and called him (the </p><p>joke was almost too good to be true!) "my father." Linda, on the con- </p><p>trary, cut no ice; nobody had the smallest desire to see Linda. To say </p><p>one was a mother-that was past a joke: it was an obscenity. Moreover, </p><p>she wasn't a real savage, had been hatched out of a bottle and condi- </p><p>tioned like any one else: so couldn't have really quaint ideas. Final- </p><p>ly— and this was by far the strongest reason for people's not wanting to </p><p>see poor Linda-there was her appearance. Fat; having lost her youth; </p><p>with bad teeth, and a blotched complexion, and that figure (Fordl)-you </p><p>simply couldn't look at her without feeling sick, yes, positively sick. So </p><p>the best people were quite determined not to see Linda. And Linda, for </p><p>her part, had no desire to see them. The return to civilization was for </p><p>her the return to soma , was the possibility of lying in bed and taking </p><p>holiday after holiday, without ever having to come back to a headache </p><p>or a fit of vomiting, without ever being made to feel as you always felt </p><p>after peyotl, as though you'd done something so shamefully anti-social </p><p>that you could never hold up your head again. Soma played none of </p><p>these unpleasant tricks. The holiday it gave was perfect and, if the </p><p>morning after was disagreeable, it was so, not intrinsically, but only by </p><p>comparison with the joys of the holiday. The remedy was to make the </p><p>holiday continuous. Greedily she clamoured for ever larger, ever more </p><p>frequent doses. Dr. Shaw at first demurred; then let her have what she </p><p>wanted. She took as much as twenty grammes a day. </p><p>"Which will finish her off in a month or two," the doctor confided to </p><p>Bernard. "One day the respiratory centre will be paralyzed. No more </p><p>breathing. Finished. And a good thing too. If we could rejuvenate, of </p><p>course it would be different. But we can't." </p><p>Surprisingly, as every one thought (for on soma - holiday Linda was </p><p>most conveniently out of the way), John raised objections. </p><p>"But aren't you shortening her life by giving her so much?" </p><p>"In one sense, yes," Dr. Shaw admitted. "But in another we're actually </p><p>lengthening it." The young man stared, uncomprehending. "Soma may </p><p>make you lose a few years in time," the doctor went on. "But think of </p><p>the enormous, immeasurable durations it can give you out of time. </p><p>Every soma - holiday is a bit of what our ancestors used to call eter- </p><p>nity." </p><p>John began to understand. "Eternity was in our lips and eyes," he </p><p>murmured. </p><p>"Eh?" </p><p>"Nothing." </p><p>"Of course," Dr. Shaw went on, "you can't allow people to go popping </p><p>off into eternity if they've got any serious work to do. But as she </p><p>hasn't got any serious work ..." </p><p>"All the same," John persisted, "I don't believe it's right." </p><p>The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Well, of course, if you prefer to </p><p>have her screaming mad all the time ..." </p><p>In the end John was forced to give in. Linda got her soma. Thencefor- </p><p>ward she remained in her little room on the thirty-seventh floor of </p><p>Bernard's apartment house, in bed, with the radio and television al- </p><p>ways on, and the patchouli tap just dripping, and the soma tablets </p><p>within reach of her hand-there she remained; and yet wasn't there at </p><p>all, was all the time away, infinitely far away, on holiday; on holiday in </p><p>some other world, where the music of the radio was a labyrinth of so- </p><p>norous colours, a sliding, palpitating labyrinth, that led (by what beau- </p><p>tifully inevitable windings) to a bright centre of absolute conviction; </p><p>where the dancing images of the television box were the performers in </p><p>some indescribably delicious all-singing feely; where the dripping </p><p>patchouli was more than scent-was the sun, was a million saxophones, </p><p>was Pope making love, only much more so, incomparably more, and </p><p>without end. </p><p>"No, we can't rejuvenate. But I'm very glad," Dr. Shaw had concluded, </p><p>"to have had this opportunity to see an example of senility in a human </p><p>being. Thank you so much for calling me in." He shook Bernard warmly </p><p>by the hand. </p><p>It was John, then, they were all after. And as it was only through Ber- </p><p>nard, his accredited guardian, that John could be seen, Bernard now </p><p>found himself, for the first time in his life, treated not merely normally, </p><p>but as a person of outstanding importance. There was no more talk of </p><p>the alcohol in his blood-surrogate, no gibes at his personal appear- </p><p>ance. Henry Foster went out of his way to be friendly; Benito Hoover </p><p>made him a present of six packets of sex-hormone chewing-gum; the </p><p>Assistant Predestinator came out and cadged almost abjectly for an in- </p><p>vitation to one of Bernard's evening parties. As for the women, Ber- </p><p>nard had only to hint at the possibility of an invitation, and he could </p><p>have whichever of them he liked.</p><p>"Bernard's asked me to meet the Savage next Wednesday," Fanny an- </p><p>nounced triumphantly. </p><p>"I'm so glad," said Lenina. "And now you must admit that you were </p><p>wrong about Bernard. Don't you think he's really rather sweet?" </p><p>Fanny nodded. "And I must say," she said, "I was quite agreeably sur- </p><p>prised." </p><p>The Chief Bottler, the Director of Predestination, three Deputy Assis- </p><p>tant Fertilizer-Generals, the Professor of Feelies in the College of Emo- </p><p>tional Engineering, the Dean of the Westminster Community Singery, </p><p>the Supervisor of Bokanovskification-the list of Bernard's notabilities </p><p>was interminable. </p><p>"And I had six girls last week," he confided to Helmholtz Watson. "One </p><p>on Monday, two on Tuesday, two more on Friday, and one on Saturday. </p><p>And if I'd had the time or the inclination, there were at least a dozen </p><p>more who were only too anxious ..." </p><p>Helmholtz listened to his boastings in a silence so gloomily disapprov- </p><p>ing that Bernard was offended. </p><p>"You're envious," he said. </p><p>Helmholtz shook his head. "I'm rather sad, that's all," he answered. </p><p>Bernard went off in a huff. Never, he told himself, never would he </p><p>speak to Helmholtz again. </p><p>The days passed. Success went fizzily to Bernard's head, and in the </p><p>process completely reconciled him (as any good intoxicant should do) </p><p>to a world which, up till then, he had found very unsatisfactory. In so </p><p>far as it recognized him as important, the order of things was good. </p><p>But, reconciled by his success, he yet refused to forego the privilege of </p><p>criticizing this order. For the act of criticizing heightened his sense of </p><p>importance, made him feel larger. Moreover, he did genuinely believe </p><p>that there were things to criticize. (At the same time, he genuinely </p><p>liked being a success and having all the girls he wanted.) Before those </p><p>who now, for the sake of the Savage, paid their court to him, Bernard </p><p>would parade a carping unorthodoxy. He was politely listened to. But </p><p>behind his back people shook their heads. "That young man will come </p><p>to a bad end," they said, prophesying the more confidently in that they </p><p>themselves would in due course personally see to it that the end was </p><p>bad. "He won't find another Savage to help him out a second time," </p><p>they said. Meanwhile, however, there was the first Savage; they were </p><p>polite. And because they were polite, Bernard felt positively gigan- </p><p>tic-gigantic and at the same time light with elation, lighter than air. </p><p>"Lighter than air," said Bernard, pointing upwards. </p><p>Like a pearl in the sky, high, high above them, the Weather Depart- </p><p>ment's captive balloon shone rosily in the sunshine. </p><p>"... the said Savage," so ran Bernard's instructions, "to be shown civi- </p><p>lized life in all its aspects. ..." </p><p>He was being shown a bird's-eye view of it at present, a bird's-eye </p><p>view from the platform of the Charing-T Tower. The Station Master and </p><p>the Resident Meteorologist were acting as guides. But it was Bernard </p><p>who did most of the talking. Intoxicated, he was behaving as though, </p><p>at the very least, he were a visiting World Controller. Lighter than air. </p><p>The Bombay Green Rocket dropped out of the sky. The passengers </p><p>alighted. Eight identical Dravidian twins in khaki looked out of the </p><p>eight portholes of the cabin-the stewards. </p><p>"Twelve hundred and fifty kilometres an hour," said the Station Master </p><p>impressively. "What do you think of that, Mr. Savage?" </p><p>John thought it very nice. "Still," he said, "Ariel could put a girdle </p><p>round the earth in forty minutes." </p><p>"The Savage," wrote Bernard in his report to Mustapha Mond, "shows </p><p>surprisingly little astonishment at, or awe of, civilized inventions. This </p><p>is partly due, no doubt, to the fact that he has heard them talked </p><p>about by the woman Linda, his m ." </p><p>(Mustapha Mond frowned. "Does the fool think I'm too squeamish to </p><p>see the word written out at full length?") </p><p>"Partly on his interest being focussed on what he calls 'the soul,' which </p><p>he persists in regarding as an entity independent of the physical envi- </p><p>ronment, whereas, as I tried to point out to him ..." </p><p>The Controller skipped the next sentences and was just about to turn </p><p>the page in search of something more interestingly concrete, when his </p><p>eye was caught by a series of quite extraordinary phrases. " ... though </p><p>I must admit," he read, "that I agree with the Savage in finding civi- </p><p>lized infantility too easy or, as he puts it, not expensive enough; and I </p><p>would like to take this opportunity of drawing your fordship's attention </p><p>to ..." </p><p>Mustapha Mond's anger gave place almost at once to mirth. The idea </p><p>of this creature solemnly lecturing him-/7/'m-about the social order was </p><p>really too grotesque. The man must have gone mad. "I ought to give </p><p>him a lesson," he said to himself; then threw back his head and </p><p>laughed aloud. For the moment, at any rate, the lesson would not be </p><p>given. </p><p>It was a small factory of lighting-sets for helicopters, a branch of the </p><p>Electrical Equipment Corporation. They were met on the roof itself (for </p><p>that circular letter of recommendation from the Controller was magical </p><p>in its effects) by the Chief Technician and the Human Element Man- </p><p>ager. They walked downstairs into the factory. </p><p>"Each process," explained the Human Element Manager, "is carried</p><p>out, so far as possible, by a single Bokanovsky Group." </p><p>And, in effect, eighty-three almost noseless black brachycephalic Del- </p><p>tas were cold-pressing. The fifty-six four-spindle chucking and turning </p><p>machines were being manipulated by fifty-six aquiline and ginger </p><p>Gammas. One hundred and seven heat-conditioned Epsilon Senegalese </p><p>were working in the foundry. Thirty-three Delta females, long-headed, </p><p>sandy, with narrow pelvises, and all within 20 millimetres of 1 metre </p><p>69 centimetres tall, were cutting screws. In the assembling room, the </p><p>dynamos were being put together by two sets of Gamma-Plus dwarfs. </p><p>The two low work-tables faced one another; between them crawled the </p><p>conveyor with its load of separate parts; forty-seven blonde heads </p><p>were confronted by forty-seven brown ones. Forty-seven snubs by </p><p>forty-seven hooks; forty-seven receding by forty-seven prognathous </p><p>chins. The completed mechanisms were inspected by eighteen identi- </p><p>cal curly auburn girls in Gamma green, packed in crates by thirty-four </p><p>short-legged, left-handed male Delta-Minuses, and loaded into the </p><p>waiting trucks and lorries by sixty-three blue-eyed, flaxen and freckled </p><p>Epsilon Semi-Morons. </p><p>"O brave new world ..." By some malice of his memory the Savage </p><p>found himself repeating Miranda's words. "O brave new world that has </p><p>such people in it." </p><p>"And I assure you," the Human Element Manager concluded, as they </p><p>left the factory, "we hardly ever have any trouble with our workers. We </p><p>always find ..." </p><p>But the Savage had suddenly broken away from his companions and </p><p>was violently retching, behind a clump of laurels, as though the solid </p><p>earth had been a helicopter in an air pocket. </p><p>"The Savage," wrote Bernard, "refuses to take soma, and seems much </p><p>distressed because of the woman Linda, his m , remains perma- </p><p>nently on holiday. It is worthy of note that, in spite of his m 's senil- </p><p>ity and the extreme repulsiveness of her appearance, the Savage fre- </p><p>quently goes to see her and appears to be much attached to her-an </p><p>interesting example of the way in which early conditioning can be </p><p>made to modify and even run counter to natural impulses (in this case, </p><p>the impulse to recoil from an unpleasant object)." </p><p>At Eton they alighted on the roof of Upper School. On the opposite side </p><p>of School Yard, the fifty-two stories of Lupton's Tower gleamed white in </p><p>the sunshine. College on their left and, on their right, the School </p><p>Community Singery reared their venerable piles of ferro-concrete and </p><p>vita-glass. In the centre of the quadrangle stood the quaint old </p><p>chrome-steel statue of Our Ford. </p><p>Dr. Gaffney, the Provost, and Miss Keate, the Head Mistress, received </p><p>them as they stepped out of the plane. </p><p>"Do you have many twins here?" the Savage asked rather apprehen- </p><p>sively, as they set out on their tour of inspection. </p><p>"Oh, no," the Provost answered. "Eton is reserved exclusively for </p><p>upper-caste boys and girls. One egg, one adult. It makes education</p><p>more difficult of course. But as they'll be called upon to take responsi- </p><p>bilities and deal with unexpected emergencies, it can't be helped." He </p><p>sighed. </p><p>Bernard, meanwhile, had taken a strong fancy to Miss Keate. "If you're </p><p>free any Monday, Wednesday, or Friday evening," he was saying. Jerk- </p><p>ing his thumb towards the Savage, "He's curious, you know," Bernard </p><p>added. "Quaint." </p><p>Miss Keate smiled (and her smile was really charming, he thought); </p><p>said Thank you; would be delighted to come to one of his parties. The </p><p>Provost opened a door. </p><p>Five minutes in that Alpha Double Plus classroom left John a trifle be- </p><p>wildered. </p><p>"What is elementary relativity?" he whispered to Bernard. Bernard </p><p>tried to explain, then thought better of it and suggested that they </p><p>should go to some other classroom. </p><p>From behind a door in the corridor leading to the Beta-Minus geogra- </p><p>phy room, a ringing soprano voice called, "One, two, three, four," and </p><p>then, with a weary impatience, "As you were." </p><p>"Malthusian Drill," explained the Flead Mistress. "Most of our girls are </p><p>freemartins, of course. I'm a freemartin myself." She smiled at Ber- </p><p>nard. "But we have about eight hundred unsterilized ones who need </p><p>constant drilling." </p><p>In the Beta-Minus geography room John learnt that "a savage reserva- </p><p>tion is a place which, owing to unfavourable climatic or geological con- </p><p>ditions, or poverty of natural resources, has not been worth the ex- </p><p>pense of civilizing." A click; the room was darkened; and suddenly, on </p><p>the screen above the Master's head, there were the Penitentes of </p><p>Acoma prostrating themselves before Our Lady, and wailing as John </p><p>had heard them wail, confessing their sins before Jesus on the Cross, </p><p>before the eagle image of Pookong. The young Etonians fairly shouted </p><p>with laughter. Still wailing, the Penitentes rose to their feet, stripped </p><p>off their upper garments and, with knotted whips, began to beat them- </p><p>selves, blow after blow. Redoubled, the laughter drowned even the </p><p>amplified record of their groans. </p><p>"But why do they laugh?" asked the Savage in a pained bewilderment. </p><p>"Why?" The Provost turned towards him a still broadly grinning face. </p><p>"Why? But because it's so extraordinarily funny." </p><p>In the cinematographic twilight, Bernard risked a gesture which, in the </p><p>past, even total darkness would hardly have emboldened him to make. </p><p>Strong in his new importance, he put his arm around the Head Mis- </p><p>tress's waist. It yielded, willowily. He was just about to snatch a kiss or </p><p>two and perhaps a gentle pinch, when the shutters clicked open again. </p><p>"Perhaps we had better go on," said Miss Keate, and moved towards </p><p>the door. </p><p>"And this," said the Provost a moment later, "is Hypnopaedic Control </p><p>Room." </p><p>Hundreds of synthetic music boxes, one for each dormitory, stood </p><p>ranged in shelves round three sides of the room; pigeon-holed on the </p><p>fourth were the paper sound-track rolls on which the various hyp- </p><p>nopaedic lessons were printed. </p><p>"You slip the roll in here," explained Bernard, interrupting Dr. Gaffney, </p><p>"press down this switch ..." </p><p>"No, that one," corrected the Provost, annoyed. </p><p>"That one, then. The roll unwinds. The selenium cells transform the </p><p>light impulses into sound waves, and ..." </p><p>"And there you are," Dr. Gaffney concluded. </p><p>"Do they read Shakespeare?" asked the Savage as they walked, on </p><p>their way to the Bio-chemical Laboratories, past the School Library. </p><p>"Certainly not," said the Head Mistress, blushing. </p><p>"Our library," said Dr. Gaffney, "contains only books of reference. If our </p><p>young people need distraction, they can get it at the feelies. We don't </p><p>encourage them to indulge in any solitary amusements." </p><p>Five bus-loads of boys and girls, singing or in a silent embracement, </p><p>rolled past them over the vitrified highway. </p><p>"Just returned," explained Dr. Gaffney, while Bernard, whispering, </p><p>made an appointment with the Head Mistress for that very evening, </p><p>"from the Slough Crematorium. Death conditioning begins at eighteen </p><p>months. Every tot spends two mornings a week in a Hospital for the </p><p>Dying. All the best toys are kept there, and they get chocolate cream </p><p>on death days. They learn to take dying as a matter of course." </p><p>"Like any other physiological process," put in the Head Mistress pro- </p><p>fessionally. </p><p>Eight o'clock at the Savoy. It was all arranged. </p><p>On their way back to London they stopped at the Television Corpora- </p><p>tion's factory at Brentford. </p><p>"Do you mind waiting here a moment while I go and telephone?" asked </p><p>Bernard. </p><p>The Savage waited and watched. The Main Day-Shift was just going off </p><p>duty. Crowds of lower-caste workers were queued up in front of the </p><p>monorail station-seven or eight hundred Gamma, Delta and Epsilon </p><p>men and women, with not more than a dozen faces and statures be- </p><p>tween them. To each of them, with his or her ticket, the booking clerk </p><p>pushed over a little cardboard pillbox. The long caterpillar of men and </p><p>women moved slowly forward.</p><p>"What's in those" (remembering The Merchant of Venice) "those cas- </p><p>kets?" the Savage enquired when Bernard had rejoined him. </p><p>"The day's soma ration," Bernard answered rather indistinctly; for he </p><p>was masticating a piece of Benito Hoover's chewing-gum. "They get it </p><p>after their work's over. Four half-gramme tablets. Six on Saturdays." </p><p>He took John's arm affectionately and they walked back towards the </p><p>helicopter. </p><p>Lenina came singing into the Changing Room. </p><p>"You seem very pleased with yourself," said Fanny. </p><p>"I am pleased," she answered. Zip! "Bernard rang up half an hour </p><p>ago." Zip, zip! She stepped out of her shorts. "He has an unexpected </p><p>engagement." Zip! "Asked me if I'd take the Savage to the feelies this </p><p>evening. I must fly." She hurried away towards the bathroom. </p><p>"She's a lucky girl," Fanny said to herself as she watched Lenina go. </p><p>There was no envy in the comment; good-natured Fanny was merely </p><p>stating a fact. Lenina was lucky; lucky in having shared with Bernard a </p><p>generous portion of the Savage's immense celebrity, lucky in reflecting </p><p>from her insignificant person the moment's supremely fashionable </p><p>glory. Had not the Secretary of the Young Women's Fordian Association </p><p>asked her to give a lecture about her experiences? Had she not been </p><p>invited to the Annual Dinner of the Aphroditeum Club? Had she not al- </p><p>ready appeared in the Feelytone News-visibly, audibly and tactually </p><p>appeared to countless millions all over the planet? </p><p>Hardly less flattering had been the attentions paid her by conspicuous </p><p>individuals. The Resident World Controller's Second Secretary had </p><p>asked her to dinner and breakfast. She had spent one week-end with </p><p>the Ford Chief-Justice, and another with the Arch-Community-Songster </p><p>of Canterbury. The President of the Internal and External Secretions </p><p>Corporation was perpetually on the phone, and she had been to Deau- </p><p>ville with the Deputy-Governor of the Bank of Europe. </p><p>"It's wonderful, of course. And yet in a way," she had confessed to </p><p>Fanny, "I feel as though I were getting something on false pretences. </p><p>Because, of course, the first thing they all want to know is what it's </p><p>like to make love to a Savage. And I have to say I don't know." She </p><p>shook her head. "Most of the men don't believe me, of course. But it's </p><p>true. I wish it weren't," she added sadly and sighed. "He's terribly </p><p>good-looking; don't you think so?" </p><p>"But doesn't he like you?" asked Fanny. </p><p>"Sometimes I think he does and sometimes I think he doesn't. He al- </p><p>ways does his best to avoid me; goes out of the room when I come in; </p><p>won't touch me; won't even look at me. But sometimes if I turn round </p><p>suddenly, I catch him staring; and then-well, you know how men look </p><p>when they like you." </p><p>Yes, Fanny knew. </p><p>"I can't make it out," said Lenina. </p><p>She couldn't make it out; and not only was bewildered; was also </p><p>rather upset. </p><p>"Because, you see, Fanny, I like him." </p><p>Liked him more and more. Well, now there'd be a real chance, she </p><p>thought, as she scented herself after her bath. Dab, dab, dab-a real </p><p>chance. Her high spirits overflowed in a song. </p><p>"Hug me till you drug me ; honey; </p><p>Kiss me till I'm in a coma; </p><p>Hug me ; honey ; snuggly bunny; </p><p>Love's as good as soma. " </p><p>The scent organ was playing a delightfully refreshing Herbal Capric- </p><p>cio-rippling arpeggios of thyme and lavender, of rosemary, basil, myr- </p><p>tle, tarragon; a series of daring modulations through the spice keys </p><p>into ambergris; and a slow return through sandalwood, camphor, cedar </p><p>and newmown hay (with occasional subtle touches of discord-a whiff </p><p>of kidney pudding, the faintest suspicion of pig's dung) back to the </p><p>simple aromatics with which the piece began. The final blast of thyme </p><p>died away; there was a round of applause; the lights went up. In the </p><p>synthetic music machine the sound-track roll began to unwind. It was </p><p>a trio for hyper-violin, super-cello and oboe-surrogate that now filled </p><p>the air with its agreeable languor. Thirty or forty bars-and then, </p><p>against this instrumental background, a much more than human voice </p><p>began to warble; now throaty, now from the head, now hollow as a </p><p>flute, now charged with yearning harmonics, it effortlessly passed from </p><p>Gaspard's Forster's low record on the very frontiers of musical tone to </p><p>a trilled bat-note high above the highest C to which (in 1770, at the </p><p>Ducal opera of Parma, and to the astonishment of Mozart) Lucrezia </p><p>Ajugari, alone of all the singers in history, once piercingly gave utter- </p><p>ance. </p><p>Sunk in their pneumatic stalls, Lenina and the Savage sniffed and lis- </p><p>tened. It was now the turn also for eyes and skin. </p><p>The house lights went down; fiery letters stood out solid and as though </p><p>self-supported in the darkness. THREE WEEKS IN A HELICOPTER . AN </p><p>ALL-SUPER-SINGING, SYNTHETIC-TALKING, COLOURED, STEREO- </p><p>SCOPIC FEELY. WITH SYNCHRONIZED SCENT-ORGAN ACCOMPANI- </p><p>MENT. </p><p>"Take hold of those metal knobs on the arms of your chair," whispered </p><p>Lenina. "Otherwise you won't get any of the feely effects." </p><p>The Savage did as he was told. </p><p>Those fiery letters, meanwhile, had disappeared; there were ten sec-</p><p>onds of complete darkness; then suddenly, dazzling and incomparably </p><p>more solid-looking than they would have seemed in actual flesh and </p><p>blood, far more real than reality, there stood the stereoscopic images, </p><p>locked in one another's arms, of a gigantic negro and a golden-haired </p><p>young brachycephalic Beta-Plus female. </p><p>The Savage started. That sensation on his lips! He lifted a hand to his </p><p>mouth; the titillation ceased; let his hand fall back on the metal knob; </p><p>it began again. The scent organ, meanwhile, breathed pure musk. Ex- </p><p>piringly, a sound-track super-dove cooed "Oo-ooh"; and vibrating only </p><p>thirty-two times a second, a deeper than African bass made answer: </p><p>"Aa-aah." "Ooh-ah! Ooh-ah!" the stereoscopic lips came together </p><p>again, and once more the facial erogenous zones of the six thousand </p><p>spectators in the Alhambra tingled with almost intolerable galvanic </p><p>pleasure. "Ooh ..." </p><p>The plot of the film was extremely simple. A few minutes after the first </p><p>Oohs and Aahs (a duet having been sung and a little love made on </p><p>that famous bearskin, every hair of which-the Assistant Predestinator </p><p>was perfectly right-could be separately and distinctly felt), the negro </p><p>had a helicopter accident, fell on his head. Thump! what a twinge </p><p>through the forehead! A chorus of ow's and aie's went up from the </p><p>audience. </p><p>The concussion knocked all the negro's conditioning into a cocked hat. </p><p>He developed for the Beta blonde an exclusive and maniacal passion. </p><p>She protested. He persisted. There were struggles, pursuits, an assault </p><p>on a rival, finally a sensational kidnapping. The Beta blond was rav- </p><p>ished away into the sky and kept there, hovering, for three weeks in a </p><p>wildly anti-social tete-a-tete with the black madman. Finally, after a </p><p>whole series of adventures and much aerial acrobacy three handsome </p><p>young Alphas succeeded in rescuing her. The negro was packed off to </p><p>an Adult Re-conditioning Centre and the film ended happily and deco- </p><p>rously, with the Beta blonde becoming the mistress of all her three </p><p>rescuers. They interrupted themselves for a moment to sing a syn- </p><p>thetic quartet, with full super-orchestral accompaniment and gardenias </p><p>on the scent organ. Then the bearskin made a final appearance and, </p><p>amid a blare of saxophones, the last stereoscopic kiss faded into dark- </p><p>ness, the last electric titillation died on the lips like a dying moth that </p><p>quivers, quivers, ever more feebly, ever more faintly, and at last is </p><p>quiet, quite still. </p><p>But for Lenina the moth did not completely die. Even after the lights </p><p>had gone up, while they were shuffling slowly along with the crowd </p><p>towards the lifts, its ghost still fluttered against her lips, still traced </p><p>fine shuddering roads of anxiety and pleasure across her skin. Her </p><p>cheeks were flushed. She caught hold of the Savage's arm and </p><p>pressed it, limp, against her side. He looked down at her for a mo- </p><p>ment, pale, pained, desiring, and ashamed of his desire. He was not </p><p>worthy, not ... Their eyes for a moment met. What treasures hers </p><p>promised! A queen's ransom of temperament. Hastily he looked away, </p><p>disengaged his imprisoned arm. He was obscurely terrified lest she </p><p>should cease to be something he could feel himself unworthy of.</p><p>"I don't think you ought to see things like that," he said, making haste </p><p>to transfer from Lenina herself to the surrounding circumstances the </p><p>blame for any past or possible future lapse from perfection. </p><p>"Things like what, John?" </p><p>"Like this horrible film." </p><p>"Horrible?" Lenina was genuinely astonished. "But I thought it was </p><p>lovely." </p><p>"It was base," he said indignantly, "it was ignoble." </p><p>She shook her head. "I don't know what you mean." Why was he so </p><p>queer? Why did he go out of his way to spoil things? </p><p>In the taxicopter he hardly even looked at her. Bound by strong vows </p><p>that had never been pronounced, obedient to laws that had long since </p><p>ceased to run, he sat averted and in silence. Sometimes, as though a </p><p>finger had plucked at some taut, almost breaking string, his whole </p><p>body would shake with a sudden nervous start. </p><p>The taxicopter landed on the roof of Lenina's apartment house. "At </p><p>last," she thought exultantly as she stepped out of the cab. At last- </p><p>even though he had been so queer just now. Standing under a lamp, </p><p>she peered into her hand mirror. At last. Yes, her nose was a bit shiny. </p><p>She shook the loose powder from her puff. While he was paying off the </p><p>taxi-there would just be time. She rubbed at the shininess, thinking: </p><p>"He's terribly good-looking. No need for him to be shy like Bernard. </p><p>And yet ... Any other man would have done it long ago. Well, now at </p><p>last." That fragment of a face in the little round mirror suddenly smiled </p><p>at her. </p><p>"Good-night," said a strangled voice behind her. Lenina wheeled round. </p><p>He was standing in the doorway of the cab, his eyes fixed, staring; had </p><p>evidently been staring all this time while she was powdering her nose, </p><p>waiting-but what for? or hesitating, trying to make up his mind, and </p><p>all the time thinking, thinking-she could not imagine what extraordi- </p><p>nary thoughts. "Good-night, Lenina," he repeated, and made a strange </p><p>grimacing attempt to smile. </p><p>"But, John ... I thought you were ... I mean, aren't you? ..." </p><p>He shut the door and bent forward to say something to the driver. The </p><p>cab shot up into the air. </p><p>Looking down through the window in the floor, the Savage could see </p><p>Lenina's upturned face, pale in the bluish light of the lamps. The </p><p>mouth was open, she was calling. Her foreshortened figure rushed </p><p>away from him; the diminishing square of the roof seemed to be falling </p><p>through the darkness. </p><p>Five minutes later he was back in his room. From its hiding-place he </p><p>took out his mouse-nibbled volume, turned with religious care its</p><p>stained and crumbled pages, and began to read Othello. Othello, he </p><p>remembered, was like the hero of Three Weeks in a Helicopter-a black </p><p>man. </p><p>Drying her eyes, Lenina walked across the roof to the lift. On her way </p><p>down to the twenty-seventh floor she pulled out her soma bottle. One </p><p>gramme, she decided, would not be enough; hers had been more than </p><p>a one-gramme affliction. But if she took two grammes, she ran the risk </p><p>of not waking up in time to-morrow morning. She compromised and, </p><p>into her cupped left palm, shook out three half-gramme tablets. </p><p>Chapter Twelve </p><p>BERNARD had to shout through the locked door; the Savage would not </p><p>open. </p><p>"But everybody's there, waiting for you." </p><p>"Let them wait," came back the muffled voice through the door. </p><p>"But you know quite well, John" (how difficult it is to sound persuasive </p><p>at the top of one's voice!) "I asked them on purpose to meet you." </p><p>"You ought to have asked me first whether I wanted to meet them." </p><p>"But you always came before, John." </p><p>"That's precisely why I don't want to come again." </p><p>"Just to please me," Bernard bellowingly wheedled. "Won't you come </p><p>to please me?" </p><p>"No." </p><p>"Do you seriously mean it?" </p><p>"Yes." </p><p>Despairingly, "But what shall I do?" Bernard wailed. </p><p>"Go to hell!" bawled the exasperated voice from within. </p><p>"But the Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury is there to-night." </p><p>Bernard was almost in tears. </p><p>"Ai yaa takwa!” It was only in Zuni that the Savage could adequately </p><p>express what he felt about the Arch-Community-Songster. "Hani!" he </p><p>added as an after-thought; and then (with what derisive ferocity!): </p><p>"Sons eso tse-na." And he spat on the ground, as Pope might have </p><p>done. </p><p>In the end Bernard had to slink back, diminished, to his rooms and in-</p><p>form the impatient assembly that the Savage would not be appearing </p><p>that evening. The news was received with indignation. The men were </p><p>furious at having been tricked into behaving politely to this insignifi- </p><p>cant fellow with the unsavoury reputation and the heretical opinions. </p><p>The higher their position in the hierarchy, the deeper their resentment. </p><p>"To play such a joke on me," the Arch-Songster kept repeating, "on </p><p>me!" </p><p>As for the women, they indignantly felt that they had been had on </p><p>false pretences-had by a wretched little man who had had alcohol </p><p>poured into his bottle by mistake-by a creature with a Gamma-Minus </p><p>physique. It was an outrage, and they said so, more and more loudly. </p><p>The Head Mistress of Eton was particularly scathing. </p><p>Lenina alone said nothing. Pale, her blue eyes clouded with an un- </p><p>wonted melancholy, she sat in a corner, cut off from those who sur- </p><p>rounded her by an emotion which they did not share. She had come to </p><p>the party filled with a strange feeling of anxious exultation. "In a few </p><p>minutes," she had said to herself, as she entered the room, "I shall be </p><p>seeing him, talking to him, telling him" (for she had come with her </p><p>mind made up) "that I like him-more than anybody I've ever known. </p><p>And then perhaps he'll say ..." </p><p>What would he say? The blood had rushed to her cheeks. </p><p>"Why was he so strange the other night, after the feelies? So queer. </p><p>And yet I'm absolutely sure he really does rather like me. I'm sure ..." </p><p>It was at this moment that Bernard had made his announcement; the </p><p>Savage wasn't coming to the party. </p><p>Lenina suddenly felt all the sensations normally experienced at the be- </p><p>ginning of a Violent Passion Surrogate treatment-a sense of dreadful </p><p>emptiness, a breathless apprehension, a nausea. Her heart seemed to </p><p>stop beating. </p><p>"Perhaps it's because he doesn't like me," she said to herself. And at </p><p>once this possibility became an established certainty: John had refused </p><p>to come because he didn't like her. He didn't like her. ... </p><p>"It really is a bit too thick," the Head Mistress of Eton was saying to </p><p>the Director of Crematoria and Phosphorus Reclamation. "When I think </p><p>that I actually ..." </p><p>"Yes," came the voice of Fanny Crowne, "it's absolutely true about the </p><p>alcohol. Some one I know knew some one who was working in the </p><p>Embryo Store at the time. She said to my friend, and my friend said to </p><p>me ..." </p><p>"Too bad, too bad," said Henry Foster, sympathizing with the Arch- </p><p>Community-Songster. "It may interest you to know that our ex- </p><p>Director was on the point of transferring him to Iceland." </p><p>Pierced by every word that was spoken, the tight balloon of Bernard's </p><p>happy self-confidence was leaking from a thousand wounds. Pale, dis-</p><p>traught, abject and agitated, he moved among his guests, stammering </p><p>incoherent apologies, assuring them that next time the Savage would </p><p>certainly be there, begging them to sit down and take a carotene </p><p>sandwich, a slice of vitamin A pate, a glass of champagne-surrogate. </p><p>They duly ate, but ignored him; drank and were either rude to his face </p><p>or talked to one another about him, loudly and offensively, as though </p><p>he had not been there. </p><p>"And now, my friends," said the Arch-Community-Songster of Canter- </p><p>bury, in that beautiful ringing voice with which he led the proceedings </p><p>at Ford's Day Celebrations, "Now, my friends, I think perhaps the time </p><p>has come ..." He rose, put down his glass, brushed from his purple vis- </p><p>cose waistcoat the crumbs of a considerable collation, and walked to- </p><p>wards the door. </p><p>Bernard darted forward to intercept him. </p><p>"Must you really, Arch-Songster? ... It's very early still. I'd hoped you </p><p>would ..." </p><p>Yes, what hadn't he hoped, when Lenina confidentially told him that </p><p>the Arch-Community-Songster would accept an invitation if it were </p><p>sent. "He's really rather sweet, you know." And she had shown Ber- </p><p>nard the little golden zipper-fastening in the form of a T which the </p><p>Arch-Songster had given her as a memento of the week-end she had </p><p>spent at Lambeth. To meet the Arch-Community-Songster of Canter- </p><p>bury and Mr. Savage. Bernard had proclaimed his triumph on every in- </p><p>vitation card. But the Savage had chosen this evening of all evenings </p><p>to lock himself up in his room, to shout "Hani!" and even (it was lucky </p><p>that Bernard didn't understand Zuni) "Sons eso tse-na!" What should </p><p>have been the crowning moment of Bernard's whole career had turned </p><p>out to be the moment of his greatest humiliation. </p><p>"I'd so much hoped ..." he stammeringly repeated, looking up at the </p><p>great dignitary with pleading and distracted eyes. </p><p>"My young friend," said the Arch-Community-Songster in a tone of </p><p>loud and solemn severity; there was a general silence. "Let me give </p><p>you a word of advice." He wagged his finger at Bernard. "Before it's </p><p>too late. A word of good advice." (His voice became sepulchral.) "Mend </p><p>your ways, my young friend, mend your ways." He made the sign of </p><p>the T over him and turned away. "Lenina, my dear," he called in an- </p><p>other tone. "Come with me." </p><p>Obediently, but unsmiling and (wholly insensible of the honour done to </p><p>her) without elation, Lenina walked after him, out of the room. The </p><p>other guests followed at a respectful interval. The last of them </p><p>slammed the door. Bernard was all alone. </p><p>Punctured, utterly deflated, he dropped into a chair and, covering his </p><p>face with his hands, began to weep. A few minutes later, however, he </p><p>thought better of it and took four tablets of soma. </p><p>Upstairs in his room the Savage was reading Romeo and Juliet. </p><p>Lenina and the Arch-Community-Songster stepped out on to the roof</p><p>of Lambeth Palace. "Hurry up, my young friend-I mean, Lenina," </p><p>called the Arch-Songster impatiently from the lift gates. Lenina, who </p><p>had lingered for a moment to look at the moon, dropped her eyes and </p><p>came hurrying across the roof to rejoin him. </p><p>"A New Theory of Biology" was the title of the paper which Mustapha </p><p>Mond had just finished reading. He sat for some time, meditatively </p><p>frowning, then picked up his pen and wrote across the title-page: "The </p><p>author's mathematical treatment of the conception of purpose is novel </p><p>and highly ingenious, but heretical and, so far as the present social or- </p><p>der is concerned, dangerous and potentially subversive. Not to be pub- </p><p>lished ." He underlined the words. "The author will be kept under su- </p><p>pervision. His transference to the Marine Biological Station of St. He- </p><p>lena may become necessary." A pity, he thought, as he signed his </p><p>name. It was a masterly piece of work. But once you began admitting </p><p>explanations in terms of purpose-well, you didn't know what the result </p><p>might be. It was the sort of idea that might easily decondition the </p><p>more unsettled minds among the higher castes-make them lose their </p><p>faith in happiness as the Sovereign Good and take to believing, in- </p><p>stead, that the goal was somewhere beyond, somewhere outside the </p><p>present human sphere, that the purpose of life was not the mainte- </p><p>nance of well-being, but some intensification and refining of con- </p><p>sciousness, some enlargement of knowledge. Which was, the Control- </p><p>ler reflected, quite possibly true. But not, in the present circumstance, </p><p>admissible. He picked up his pen again, and under the words "Not to </p><p>be published” drew a second line, thicker and blacker than the first; </p><p>then sighed, "What fun it would be," he thought, "if one didn't have to </p><p>think about happiness!" </p><p>With closed eyes, his face shining with rapture, John was softly de- </p><p>claiming to vacancy: </p><p>"Oh! she doth teach the torches to burn bright. </p><p>It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night ; </p><p>Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear; </p><p>Beauty too rich for use ; for earth too dear ... " </p><p>The golden T lay shining on Lenina's bosom. Sportively, the Arch- </p><p>Community-Songster caught hold of it, sportively he pulled, pulled. "I </p><p>think," said Lenina suddenly, breaking a long silence, "I'd better take a </p><p>couple of grammes of soma." </p><p>Bernard, by this time, was fast asleep and smiling at the private para- </p><p>dise of his dreams. Smiling, smiling. But inexorably, every thirty sec- </p><p>onds, the minute hand of the electric clock above his bed jumped for- </p><p>ward with an almost imperceptible click. Click, click, click, click ... And </p><p>it was morning. Bernard was back among the miseries of space and </p><p>time. It was in the lowest spirits that he taxied across to his work at </p><p>the Conditioning Centre. The intoxication of success had evaporated; </p><p>he was soberly his old self; and by contrast with the temporary balloon </p><p>of these last weeks, the old self seemed unprecedentedly heavier than</p><p>the surrounding atmosphere. </p><p>To this deflated Bernard the Savage showed himself unexpectedly </p><p>sympathetic. </p><p>"You're more like what you were at Malpais," he said, when Bernard </p><p>had told him his plaintive story. "Do you remember when we first </p><p>talked together? Outside the little house. You're like what you were </p><p>then." </p><p>"Because I'm unhappy again; that's why." </p><p>"Well, I'd rather be unhappy than have the sort of false, lying happi- </p><p>ness you were having here." </p><p>"I like that," said Bernard bitterly. "When it's you who were the cause </p><p>of it all. Refusing to come to my party and so turning them all against </p><p>me!" He knew that what he was saying was absurd in its injustice; he </p><p>admitted inwardly, and at last even aloud, the truth of all that the </p><p>Savage now said about the worthlessness of friends who could be </p><p>turned upon so slight a provocation into persecuting enemies. But in </p><p>spite of this knowledge and these admissions, in spite of the fact that </p><p>his friend's support and sympathy were now his only comfort, Bernard </p><p>continued perversely to nourish, along with his quite genuine affection, </p><p>a secret grievance against the Savage, to mediate a campaign of small </p><p>revenges to be wreaked upon him. Nourishing a grievance against the </p><p>Arch-Community-Songster was useless; there was no possibility of be- </p><p>ing revenged on the Chief Bottler or the Assistant Predestinator. As a </p><p>victim, the Savage possessed, for Bernard, this enormous superiority </p><p>over the others: that he was accessible. One of the principal functions </p><p>of a friend is to suffer (in a milder and symbolic form) the punishments </p><p>that we should like, but are unable, to inflict upon our enemies. </p><p>Bernard's other victim-friend was Helmholtz. When, discomfited, he </p><p>came and asked once more for the friendship which, in his prosperity, </p><p>he had not thought it worth his while to preserve. Helmholtz gave it; </p><p>and gave it without a reproach, without a comment, as though he had </p><p>forgotten that there had ever been a quarrel. Touched, Bernard felt </p><p>himself at the same time humiliated by this magnanimity-a magna- </p><p>nimity the more extraordinary and therefore the more humiliating in </p><p>that it owed nothing to soma and everything to Helmholtz's character. </p><p>It was the Helmholtz of daily life who forgot and forgave, not the </p><p>Helmholtz of a half-gramme holiday. Bernard was duly grateful (it was </p><p>an enormous comfort to have his friend again) and also duly resentful </p><p>(it would be pleasure to take some revenge on Helmholtz for his gen- </p><p>erosity). </p><p>At their first meeting after the estrangement, Bernard poured out the </p><p>tale of his miseries and accepted consolation. It was not till some days </p><p>later that he learned, to his surprise and with a twinge of shame, that </p><p>he was not the only one who had been in trouble. Helmholtz had also </p><p>come into conflict with Authority. </p><p>"It was over some rhymes," he explained. "I was giving my usual </p><p>course of Advanced Emotional Engineering for Third Year Students. </p><p>Twelve lectures, of which the seventh is about rhymes. 'On the Use of </p><p>Rhymes in Moral Propaganda and Advertisement,' to be precise. I al-</p><p>ways illustrate my lecture with a lot of technical examples. This time I </p><p>thought I'd give them one I'd just written myself. Pure madness, of </p><p>course; but I couldn't resist it." He laughed. "I was curious to see what </p><p>their reactions would be. Besides," he added more gravely, "I wanted </p><p>to do a bit of propaganda; I was trying to engineer them into feeling </p><p>as I'd felt when I wrote the rhymes. Ford!" He laughed again. "What </p><p>an outcry there was! The Principal had me up and threatened to hand </p><p>me the immediate sack. I'm a marked man." </p><p>"But what were your rhymes?" Bernard asked. </p><p>"They were about being alone." </p><p>Bernard's eyebrows went up. </p><p>"I'll recite them to you, if you like." And Helmholtz began: </p><p>"Yesterday's committee , </p><p>Sticks , but a broken drum , </p><p>Midnight in the City ; </p><p>Flutes in a vacuum , </p><p>Shut lips , sleeping faces , </p><p>Every stopped machine , </p><p>The dumb and littered places </p><p>Where crowds have been: ... </p><p>All silences rejoice , </p><p>Weep (loudly or low), </p><p>Speak-but with the voice </p><p>Of whom , I do not know. </p><p>Absence , say ; of Susan's, </p><p>Absence of Egeria 's </p><p>Arms and respective bosoms, </p><p>Lips and, ah, posteriors, </p><p>Slowly form a presence; </p><p>Whose? and, I ask, of what </p><p>So absurd an essence, </p><p>That something, which is not, </p><p>Nevertheless should populate </p><p>Empty night more solidly</p><p>Than that with which we copulate, </p><p>Why should it seem so squalidly ? </p><p>Well, I gave them that as an example, and they reported me to the </p><p>Principal." </p><p>"I'm not surprised," said Bernard. "It's flatly against all their sleep- </p><p>teaching. Remember, they've had at least a quarter of a million warn- </p><p>ings against solitude." </p><p>"I know. But I thought I'd like to see what the effect would be." </p><p>"Well, you've seen now." </p><p>Helmholtz only laughed. "I feel," he said, after a silence, as though I </p><p>were just beginning to have something to write about. As though I </p><p>were beginning to be able to use that power I feel I've got inside me- </p><p>that extra, latent power. Something seems to be coming to me." In </p><p>spite of all his troubles, he seemed, Bernard thought, profoundly </p><p>happy. </p><p>Helmholtz and the Savage took to one another at once. So cordially </p><p>indeed that Bernard felt a sharp pang of jealousy. In all these weeks </p><p>he had never come to so close an intimacy with the Savage as Helm- </p><p>holtz immediately achieved. Watching them, listening to their talk, he </p><p>found himself sometimes resentfully wishing that he had never </p><p>brought them together. He was ashamed of his jealousy and alter- </p><p>nately made efforts of will and took soma to keep himself from feeling </p><p>it. But the efforts were not very successful; and between the soma- </p><p>holidays there were, of necessity, intervals. The odious sentiment kept </p><p>on returning. </p><p>At his third meeting with the Savage, Helmholtz recited his rhymes on </p><p>Solitude. </p><p>"What do you think of them?" he asked when he had done. </p><p>The Savage shook his head. "Listen to this," was his answer; and un- </p><p>locking the drawer in which he kept his mouse-eaten book, he opened </p><p>and read: </p><p>"Let the bird of loudest lay </p><p>On the sole Arabian tree ; </p><p>Herald sad and trumpet be ... " </p><p>Helmholtz listened with a growing excitement. At "sole Arabian tree" </p><p>he started; at "thou shrieking harbinger" he smiled with sudden pleas- </p><p>ure; at "every fowl of tyrant wing" the blood rushed up into his </p><p>cheeks; but at "defunctive music" he turned pale and trembled with an </p><p>unprecedented emotion. The Savage read on: </p><p>"Property was thus appall'd , </p><p>That the self was not the same;</p><p>Single nature's double name </p><p>Neither two nor one was call'd </p><p>Reason in itself confounded </p><p>Saw division grow together ..." </p><p>"Orgy-porgy!" said Bernard, interrupting the reading with a loud, un- </p><p>pleasant laugh. "It's just a Solidarity Service hymn." He was revenging </p><p>himself on his two friends for liking one another more than they liked </p><p>him. </p><p>In the course of their next two or three meetings he frequently re- </p><p>peated this little act of vengeance. It was simple and, since both </p><p>Helmholtz and the Savage were dreadfully pained by the shattering </p><p>and defilement of a favourite poetic crystal, extremely effective. In the </p><p>end, Helmholtz threatened to kick him out of the room if he dared to </p><p>interrupt again. And yet, strangely enough, the next interruption, the </p><p>most disgraceful of all, came from Helmholtz himself. </p><p>The Savage was reading Romeo and Juliet aloud-reading (for all the </p><p>time he was seeing himself as Romeo and Lenina as Juliet) with an in- </p><p>tense and quivering passion. Helmholtz had listened to the scene of </p><p>the lovers' first meeting with a puzzled interest. The scene in the or- </p><p>chard had delighted him with its poetry; but the sentiments expressed </p><p>had made him smile. Getting into such a state about having a girl-it </p><p>seemed rather ridiculous. But, taken detail by verbal detail, what a su- </p><p>perb piece of emotional engineering! "That old fellow," he said, "he </p><p>makes our best propaganda technicians look absolutely silly." The Sav- </p><p>age smiled triumphantly and resumed his reading. All went tolerably </p><p>well until, in the last scene of the third act, Capulet and Lady Capulet </p><p>began to bully Juliet to marry Paris. Helmholtz had been restless </p><p>throughout the entire scene; but when, pathetically mimed by the </p><p>Savage, Juliet cried out: </p><p>"Is there no pity sitting in the clouds , </p><p>That sees into the bottom of my grief ? </p><p>O sweet my mother , cast me not away: </p><p>Delay this marriage for a month , a week ; </p><p>Or , if you do not , make the bridal bed </p><p>In that dim monument where Tybalt lies ..." </p><p>when Juliet said this, Helmholtz broke out in an explosion of uncontrol- </p><p>lable guffawing. </p><p>The mother and father (grotesque obscenity) forcing the daughter to </p><p>have some one she didn't want! And the idiotic girl not saying that she </p><p>was having some one else whom (for the moment, at any rate) she </p><p>preferred! In its smutty absurdity the situation was irresistibly comical. </p><p>He had managed, with a heroic effort, to hold down the mounting </p><p>pressure of his hilarity; but "sweet mother" (in the Savage's tremulous </p><p>tone of anguish) and the reference to Tybalt lying dead, but evidently </p><p>uncremated and wasting his phosphorus on a dim monument, were</p><p>too much for him. He laughed and laughed till the tears streamed </p><p>down his face-quenchlessly laughed while, pale with a sense of out- </p><p>rage, the Savage looked at him over the top of his book and then, as </p><p>the laughter still continued, closed it indignantly, got up and, with the </p><p>gesture of one who removes his pearl from before swine, locked it </p><p>away in its drawer. </p><p>"And yet," said Helmholtz when, having recovered breath enough to </p><p>apologize, he had mollified the Savage into listening to his explana- </p><p>tions, "I know quite well that one needs ridiculous, mad situations like </p><p>that; one can't write really well about anything else. Why was that old </p><p>fellow such a marvellous propaganda technician? Because he had so </p><p>many insane, excruciating things to get excited about. You've got to be </p><p>hurt and upset; otherwise you can't think of the really good, penetrat- </p><p>ing, X-rayish phrases. But fathers and mothers!" He shook his head. </p><p>"You can't expect me to keep a straight face about fathers and moth- </p><p>ers. And who's going to get excited about a boy having a girl or not </p><p>having her?" (The Savage winced; but Helmholtz, who was staring </p><p>pensively at the floor, saw nothing.) "No." he concluded, with a sigh, </p><p>"it won't do. We need some other kind of madness and violence. But </p><p>what? What? Where can one find it?" He was silent; then, shaking his </p><p>head, "I don't know," he said at last, "I don't know." </p><p>HENRY FOSTER loomed up through the twilight of the Embryo Store. </p><p>"Like to come to a feely this evening?" </p><p>Lenina shook her head without speaking. </p><p>"Going out with some one else?" It interested him to know which of his </p><p>friends was being had by which other. "Is it Benito?" he questioned. </p><p>She shook her head again. </p><p>Henry detected the weariness in those purple eyes, the pallor beneath </p><p>that glaze of lupus, the sadness at the corners of the unsmiling crim- </p><p>son mouth. "You're not feeling ill, are you?" he asked, a trifle anx- </p><p>iously, afraid that she might be suffering from one of the few remain- </p><p>ing infectious diseases. </p><p>Yet once more Lenina shook her head. </p><p>"Anyhow, you ought to go and see the doctor," said Henry. "A doctor a </p><p>day keeps the jim-jams away," he added heartily, driving home his </p><p>hypnopaedic adage with a clap on the shoulder. "Perhaps you need a </p><p>Pregnancy Substitute," he suggested. "Or else an extra-strong V.P.S. </p><p>treatment. Sometimes, you know, the standard passion surrogate isn't </p><p>quite ..." </p><p>"Oh, for Ford's sake," said Lenina, breaking her stubborn silence, "shut </p><p>up!" And she turned back to her neglected embryos. </p><p>A V.P.S. treatment indeed! She would have laughed, if she hadn't been </p><p>on the point of crying. As though she hadn't got enough V. P. of her</p><p>own! She sighed profoundly as she refilled her syringe. "John," she </p><p>murmured to herself, "John ..." Then "My Ford," she wondered, "have I </p><p>given this one its sleeping sickness injection, or haven't I?" She simply </p><p>couldn't remember. In the end, she decided not to run the risk of let- </p><p>ting it have a second dose, and moved down the line to the next bot- </p><p>tle. </p><p>Twenty-two years, eight months, and four days from that moment, a </p><p>promising young Alpha-Minus administrator at Mwanza-Mwanza was to </p><p>die of trypanosomiasis-the first case for over half a century. Sighing, </p><p>Lenina went on with her work. </p><p>An hour later, in the Changing Room, Fanny was energetically protest- </p><p>ing. "But it's absurd to let yourself get into a state like this. Simply ab- </p><p>surd," she repeated. "And what about? A man -one man." </p><p>"But he's the one I want." </p><p>"As though there weren't millions of other men in the world." </p><p>"But I don't want them." </p><p>"Flow can you know till you've tried?" </p><p>"I have tried." </p><p>"But how many?" asked Fanny, shrugging her shoulders contemptu- </p><p>ously. "One, two?" </p><p>"Dozens. But," shaking her head, "it wasn't any good," she added. </p><p>"Well, you must persevere," said Fanny sententiously. But it was obvi- </p><p>ous that her confidence in her own prescriptions had been shaken. </p><p>"Nothing can be achieved without perseverance." </p><p>"But meanwhile ..." </p><p>"Don't think of him." </p><p>"I can't help it." </p><p>"Take soma, then." </p><p>"I do." </p><p>"Well, go on." </p><p>"But in the intervals I still like him. I shall always like him." </p><p>"Well, if that's the case," said Fanny, with decision, "why don't you just </p><p>go and take him. Whether he wants it or no." </p><p>"But if you knew how terribly queer he was!" </p><p>"All the more reason for taking a firm line." </p><p>"It's all very well to say that." </p><p>"Don't stand any nonsense. Act." Fanny's voice was a trumpet; she </p><p>might have been a Y.W.F.A. lecturer giving an evening talk to adoles- </p><p>cent Beta-Minuses. "Yes, act-at once. Do it now." </p><p>"I'd be scared," said Lenina </p><p>"Well, you've only got to take half a gramme of soma first. And now </p><p>I'm going to have my bath." She marched off, trailing her towel. </p><p>The bell rang, and the Savage, who was impatiently hoping that Helm- </p><p>holtz would come that afternoon (for having at last made up his mind </p><p>to talk to Helmholtz about Lenina, he could not bear to postpone his </p><p>confidences a moment longer), jumped up and ran to the door. </p><p>"I had a premonition it was you, Helmholtz," he shouted as he opened. </p><p>On the threshold, in a white acetate-satin sailor suit, and with a round </p><p>white cap rakishly tilted over her left ear, stood Lenina. </p><p>"Oh!" said the Savage, as though some one had struck him a heavy </p><p>blow. </p><p>Half a gramme had been enough to make Lenina forget her fears and </p><p>her embarrassments. "Hullo, John," she said, smiling, and walked past </p><p>him into the room. Automatically he closed the door and followed her. </p><p>Lenina sat down. There was a long silence. </p><p>"You don't seem very glad to see me, John," she said at last. </p><p>"Not glad?" The Savage looked at her reproachfully; then suddenly fell </p><p>on his knees before her and, taking Lenina's hand, reverently kissed it. </p><p>"Not glad? Oh, if you only knew," he whispered and, venturing to raise </p><p>his eyes to her face, "Admired Lenina," he went on, "indeed the top of </p><p>admiration, worth what's dearest in the world." She smiled at him with </p><p>a luscious tenderness. "Oh, you so perfect" (she was leaning towards </p><p>him with parted lips), "so perfect and so peerless are created" (nearer </p><p>and nearer) "of every creature's best." Still nearer. The Savage sud- </p><p>denly scrambled to his feet. "That's why," he said speaking with </p><p>averted face, "I wanted to do something first ... I mean, to show I was </p><p>worthy of you. Not that I could ever really be that. But at any rate to </p><p>show I wasn't absolutely i//?-worthy. I wanted to do something." </p><p>"Why should you think it necessary ..." Lenina began, but left the sen- </p><p>tence unfinished. There was a note of irritation in her voice. When one </p><p>has leant forward, nearer and nearer, with parted lips-only to find </p><p>oneself, quite suddenly, as a clumsy oaf scrambles to his feet, leaning </p><p>towards nothing at all-well, there is a reason, even with half a </p><p>gramme of soma circulating in one's blood-stream, a genuine reason </p><p>for annoyance. </p><p>"At Malpais," the Savage was incoherently mumbling, "you had to </p><p>bring her the skin of a mountain lion-I mean, when you wanted to </p><p>marry some one. Or else a wolf." </p><p>"There aren't any lions in England," Lenina almost snapped.</p><p>"And even if there were," the Savage added, with sudden contemptu- </p><p>ous resentment, "people would kill them out of helicopters, I suppose, </p><p>with poison gas or something. I wouldn't do that, Lenina." He squared </p><p>his shoulders, he ventured to look at her and was met with a stare of </p><p>annoyed incomprehension. Confused, "I'll do anything," he went on, </p><p>more and more incoherently. "Anything you tell me. There be some </p><p>sports are painful-you know. But their labour delight in them sets off. </p><p>That's what I feel. I mean I'd sweep the floor if you wanted." </p><p>"But we've got vacuum cleaners here," said Lenina in bewilderment. </p><p>"It isn't necessary." </p><p>"No, of course it isn't necessary. But some kinds of baseness are nobly </p><p>undergone. I'd like to undergo something nobly. Don't you see?" </p><p>"But if there are vacuum cleaners ..." </p><p>"That's not the point." </p><p>"And Epsilon Semi-Morons to work them," she went on, "well, really, </p><p>why?" </p><p>"Why? But for you, for you. Just to show that I ..." </p><p>"And what on earth vacuum cleaners have got to do with lions ..." </p><p>"To show how much ..." </p><p>"Or lions with being glad to see me ..." She was getting more and more </p><p>exasperated. </p><p>"How much I love you, Lenina," he brought out almost desperately. </p><p>An emblem of the inner tide of startled elation, the blood rushed up </p><p>into Lenina's cheeks. "Do you mean it, John?" </p><p>"But I hadn't meant to say so," cried the Savage, clasping his hands in </p><p>a kind of agony. "Not until ... Listen, Lenina; in Malpais people get mar- </p><p>ried." </p><p>"Get what?" The irritation had begun to creep back into her voice. </p><p>What was he talking about now? </p><p>"For always. They make a promise to live together for always." </p><p>"What a horrible idea!" Lenina was genuinely shocked. </p><p>"Outliving beauty's outward with a mind that cloth renew swifter than </p><p>blood decays." </p><p>"What?"</p><p>"It's like that in Shakespeare too. 'If thou cost break her virgin knot </p><p>before all sanctimonious ceremonies may with full and holy rite ...'" </p><p>"For Ford's sake, John, talk sense. I can't understand a word you say. </p><p>First it's vacuum cleaners; then it's knots. You're driving me crazy." </p><p>She jumped up and, as though afraid that he might run away from her </p><p>physically, as well as with his mind, caught him by the wrist. "Answer </p><p>me this question: do you really like me, or don't you?" </p><p>There was a moment's silence; then, in a very low voice, "I love you </p><p>more than anything in the world," he said. </p><p>"Then why on earth didn't you say so?" she cried, and so intense was </p><p>her exasperation that she drove her sharp nails into the skin of his </p><p>wrist. "Instead of drivelling away about knots and vacuum cleaners </p><p>and lions, and making me miserable for weeks and weeks." </p><p>She released his hand and flung it angrily away from her. </p><p>"If I didn't like you so much," she said, "I'd be furious with you." </p><p>And suddenly her arms were round his neck; he felt her lips soft </p><p>against his own. So deliciously soft, so warm and electric that inevita- </p><p>bly he found himself thinking of the embraces in Three Weeks in a </p><p>Helicopter. Ooh! ooh! the stereoscopic blonde and anh! the more than </p><p>real blackamoor. Florror, horror, horror ... he fired to disengage himself; </p><p>but Lenina tightened her embrace. </p><p>"Why didn't you say so?" she whispered, drawing back her face to look </p><p>at him. Her eyes were tenderly reproachful. </p><p>"The murkiest den, the most opportune place" (the voice of conscience </p><p>thundered poetically), "the strongest suggestion our worser genius </p><p>can, shall never melt mine honour into lust. Never, never!" he re- </p><p>solved. </p><p>"You silly boy!" she was saying. "I wanted you so much. And if you </p><p>wanted me too, why didn't you? ..." </p><p>"But, Lenina ..." he began protesting; and as she immediately untwined </p><p>her arms, as she stepped away from him, he thought, for a moment, </p><p>that she had taken his unspoken hint. But when she unbuckled her </p><p>white patent cartridge belt and hung it carefully over the back of a </p><p>chair, he began to suspect that he had been mistaken. </p><p>"Lenina!" he repeated apprehensively. </p><p>She put her hand to her neck and gave a long vertical pull; her white </p><p>sailor's blouse was ripped to the hem; suspicion condensed into a too, </p><p>too solid certainty. "Lenina, what are you doing?" </p><p>Zip, zip! Her answer was wordless. She stepped out of her bell- </p><p>bottomed trousers. Her zippicamiknicks were a pale shell pink. The </p><p>Arch-Community-Songster's golden T dangled at her breast. </p><p>"For those milk paps that through the window bars bore at men's </p><p>eyes...." The singing, thundering, magical words made her seem dou- </p><p>bly dangerous, doubly alluring. Soft, soft, but how piercing! boring and </p><p>drilling into reason, tunnelling through resolution. "The strongest oaths </p><p>are straw to the fire i' the blood. Be more abstemious, or else ..." </p><p>Zip! The rounded pinkness fell apart like a neatly divided apple. A </p><p>wriggle of the arms, a lifting first of the right foot, then the left: the </p><p>zippicamiknicks were lying lifeless and as though deflated on the floor. </p><p>Still wearing her shoes and socks, and her rakishly tilted round white </p><p>cap, she advanced towards him. "Darling. Darling! If only you'd said so </p><p>before!" She held out her arms. </p><p>But instead of also saying "Darling!" and holding out his arms, the </p><p>Savage retreated in terror, flapping his hands at her as though he were </p><p>trying to scare away some intruding and dangerous animal. Four </p><p>backwards steps, and he was brought to bay against the wall. </p><p>"Sweet!" said Lenina and, laying her hands on his shoulders, pressed </p><p>herself against him. "Put your arms round me," she commanded. "Hug </p><p>me till you drug me, honey." She too had poetry at her command, </p><p>knew words that sang and were spells and beat drums. "Kiss me"; she </p><p>closed her eyes, she let her voice sink to a sleepy murmur, "Kiss me till </p><p>I'm in a coma. Hug me, honey, snuggly ..." </p><p>The Savage caught her by the wrists, tore her hands from his shoul- </p><p>ders, thrust her roughly away at arm's length. </p><p>"Ow, you're hurting me, you're ... oh!" She was suddenly silent. Terror </p><p>had made her forget the pain. Opening her eyes, she had seen his </p><p>face-no, not his face, a ferocious stranger's, pale, distorted, twitching </p><p>with some insane, inexplicable fury. Aghast, "But what is it, John?" she </p><p>whispered. He did not answer, but only stared into her face with those </p><p>mad eyes. The hands that held her wrists were trembling. He breathed </p><p>deeply and irregularly. Faint almost to imperceptibility, but appalling, </p><p>she suddenly heard the grinding of his teeth. "What is it?" she almost </p><p>screamed. </p><p>And as though awakened by her cry he caught her by the shoulders </p><p>and shook her. "Whore!" he shouted "Whore! Impudent strumpet!" </p><p>"Oh, don't, do-on't," she protested in a voice made grotesquely tremu- </p><p>lous by his shaking. </p><p>"Whore!" </p><p>"Plea-ease." </p><p>"Damned whore!" </p><p>"A gra-amme is be-etter ..." she began. </p><p>The Savage pushed her away with such force that she staggered and </p><p>fell. "Go," he shouted, standing over her menacingly, "get out of my </p><p>sight or I'll kill you." He clenched his fists.</p><p>Lenina raised her arm to cover her face. "No, please don't, John ..." </p><p>"Hurry up. Quick!" </p><p>One arm still raised, and following his every movement with a terrified </p><p>eye, she scrambled to her feet and still crouching, still covering her </p><p>head, made a dash for the bathroom. </p><p>The noise of that prodigious slap by which her departure was acceler- </p><p>ated was like a pistol shot. </p><p>"Ow!" Lenina bounded forward. </p><p>Safely locked into the bathroom, she had leisure to take stock of her </p><p>injuries. Standing with her back to the mirror, she twisted her head. </p><p>Looking over her left shoulder she could see the imprint of an open </p><p>hand standing out distinct and crimson on the pearly flesh. Gingerly </p><p>she rubbed the wounded spot. </p><p>Outside, in the other room, the Savage was striding up and down, </p><p>marching, marching to the drums and music of magical words. "The </p><p>wren goes to't and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight." Mad- </p><p>deningly they rumbled in his ears. "The fitchew nor the soiled horse </p><p>goes to't with a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are </p><p>Centaurs, though women all above. But to the girdle do the gods in- </p><p>herit. Beneath is all the fiend's. There's hell, there's darkness, there is </p><p>the sulphurous pit, burning scalding, stench, consumption; fie, fie, fie, </p><p>pain, pain! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my </p><p>imagination." </p><p>"John!" ventured a small ingratiating voice from the bathroom. "John!" </p><p>"O thou weed, who are so lovely fair and smell'st so sweet that the </p><p>sense aches at thee. Was this most goodly book made to write 'whore' </p><p>upon? Heaven stops the nose at it ..." </p><p>But her perfume still hung about him, his jacket was white with the </p><p>powder that had scented her velvety body. "Impudent strumpet, im- </p><p>pudent strumpet, impudent strumpet." The inexorable rhythm beat it- </p><p>self out. "Impudent ..." </p><p>"John, do you think I might have my clothes?" </p><p>He picked up the bell-bottomed trousers, the blouse, the zippicami- </p><p>knicks. </p><p>"Open!" he ordered, kicking the door. </p><p>"No, I won't." The voice was frightened and defiant. </p><p>"Well, how do you expect me to give them to you?" </p><p>"Push them through the ventilator over the door." </p><p>He did what she suggested and returned to his uneasy pacing of the </p><p>room. "Impudent strumpet, impudent strumpet. The devil Luxury with </p><p>his fat rump and potato finger ..." </p><p>"John." </p><p>He would not answer. "Fat rump and potato finger." </p><p>"John." </p><p>"What is it?" he asked gruffly. </p><p>"I wonder if you'd mind giving me my Malthusian belt." </p><p>Lenina sat, listening to the footsteps in the other room, wondering, as </p><p>she listened, how long he was likely to go tramping up and down like </p><p>that; whether she would have to wait until he left the flat; or if it </p><p>would be safe, after allowing his madness a reasonable time to sub- </p><p>side, to open the bathroom door and make a dash for it. </p><p>She was interrupted in the midst of these uneasy speculations by the </p><p>sound of the telephone bell ringing in the other room. Abruptly the </p><p>tramping ceased. She heard the voice of the Savage parleying with si- </p><p>lence. </p><p>"Hullo." </p><p>'Yes." </p><p>'If I do not usurp myself, I am." </p><p>'Yes, didn't you hear me say so? Mr. Savage speaking." </p><p>'What? Who's ill? Of course it interests me." </p><p>'But is it serious? Is she really bad? I'll go at once ..." </p><p>'Not in her rooms any more? Where has she been taken?" </p><p>'Oh, my God! What's the address?" </p><p>"Three Park Lane-is that it? Three? Thanks." </p><p>Lenina heard the click of the replaced receiver, then hurrying steps. A </p><p>door slammed. There was silence. Was he really gone? </p><p>With an infinity of precautions she opened the door a quarter of an </p><p>inch; peeped through the crack; was encouraged by the view of emp- </p><p>tiness; opened a little further, and put her whole head out; finally tip- </p><p>toed into the room; stood for a few seconds with strongly beating</p><p>heart, listening, listening; then darted to the front door, opened, </p><p>slipped through, slammed, ran. It was not till she was in the lift and </p><p>actually dropping down the well that she began to feel herself secure. </p><p>THE Park Lane Hospital for the Dying was a sixty-story tower of prim- </p><p>rose tiles. As the Savage stepped out of his taxicopter a convoy of </p><p>gaily-coloured aerial hearses rose whirring from the roof and darted </p><p>away across the Park, westwards, bound for the Slough Crematorium. </p><p>At the lift gates the presiding porter gave him the information he re- </p><p>quired, and he dropped down to Ward 81 (a Galloping Senility ward, </p><p>the porter explained) on the seventeenth floor. </p><p>It was a large room bright with sunshine and yellow paint, and con- </p><p>taining twenty beds, all occupied. Linda was dying in company-in </p><p>company and with all the modern conveniences. The air was continu- </p><p>ously alive with gay synthetic melodies. At the foot of every bed, con- </p><p>fronting its moribund occupant, was a television box. Television was </p><p>left on, a running tap, from morning till night. Every quarter of an hour </p><p>the prevailing perfume of the room was automatically changed. "We </p><p>try," explained the nurse, who had taken charge of the Savage at the </p><p>door, "we try to create a thoroughly pleasant atmosphere here-some- </p><p>thing between a first-class hotel and a feely-palace, if you take my </p><p>meaning." </p><p>"Where is she?" asked the Savage, ignoring these polite explanations. </p><p>The nurse was offended. "You are in a hurry," she said. </p><p>"Is there any hope?" he asked. </p><p>"You mean, of her not dying?" (He nodded.) "No, of course there isn't. </p><p>When somebody's sent here, there's no ..." Startled by the expression </p><p>of distress on his pale face, she suddenly broke off. "Why, whatever is </p><p>the matter?" she asked. She was not accustomed to this kind of thing </p><p>in visitors. (Not that there were many visitors anyhow: or any reason </p><p>why there should be many visitors.) "You're not feeling ill, are you?" </p><p>He shook his head. "She's my mother," he said in a scarcely audible </p><p>voice. </p><p>The nurse glanced at him with startled, horrified eyes; then quickly </p><p>looked away. From throat to temple she was all one hot blush. </p><p>"Take me to her," said the Savage, making an effort to speak in an or- </p><p>dinary tone. </p><p>Still blushing, she led the way down the ward. Faces still fresh and un- </p><p>withered (for senility galloped so hard that it had no time to age the </p><p>cheeks-only the heart and brain) turned as they passed. Their pro- </p><p>gress was followed by the blank, incurious eyes of second infancy. The </p><p>Savage shuddered as he looked. </p><p>Linda was lying in the last of the long row of beds, next to the wall. </p><p>Propped up on pillows, she was watching the Semi-finals of the South</p><p>American Riemann-Surface Tennis Championship, which were being </p><p>played in silent and diminished reproduction on the screen of the tele- </p><p>vision box at the foot of the bed. Hither and thither across their square </p><p>of illuminated glass the little figures noiselessly darted, like fish in an </p><p>aquarium-the silent but agitated inhabitants of another world. </p><p>Linda looked on, vaguely and uncomprehendingly smiling. Her pale, </p><p>bloated face wore an expression of imbecile happiness. Every now and </p><p>then her eyelids closed, and for a few seconds she seemed to be doz- </p><p>ing. Then with a little start she would wake up again-wake up to the </p><p>aquarium antics of the Tennis Champions, to the Super-Vox- </p><p>Wurlitzeriana rendering of "Hug me till you drug me, honey," to the </p><p>warm draught of verbena that came blowing through the ventilator </p><p>above her head-would wake to these things, or rather to a dream of </p><p>which these things, transformed and embellished by the soma in her </p><p>blood, were the marvellous constituents, and smile once more her </p><p>broken and discoloured smile of infantile contentment. </p><p>"Well, I must go," said the nurse. "I've got my batch of children com- </p><p>ing. Besides, there's Number 3." She pointed up the ward. "Might go </p><p>off any minute now. Well, make yourself comfortable." She walked </p><p>briskly away. </p><p>The Savage sat down beside the bed. </p><p>"Linda," he whispered, taking her hand. </p><p>At the sound of her name, she turned. Her vague eyes brightened with </p><p>recognition. She squeezed his hand, she smiled, her lips moved; then </p><p>quite suddenly her head fell forward. She was asleep. He sat watching </p><p>her-seeking through the tired flesh, seeking and finding that young, </p><p>bright face which had stooped over his childhood in Malpais, remem- </p><p>bering (and he closed his eyes) her voice, her movements, all the </p><p>events of their life together. "Streptocock-Gee to Banbury T ..." How </p><p>beautiful her singing had been! And those childish rhymes, how magi- </p><p>cally strange and mysterious! </p><p>A, B, C, vitamin D: </p><p>The fat's in the liver ; the cod's in the sea. </p><p>He felt the hot tears welling up behind his eyelids as he recalled the </p><p>words and Linda's voice as she repeated them. And then the reading </p><p>lessons: The tot is in the pot, the cat is on the mat; and the Elemen- </p><p>tary Instructions for Beta Workers in the Embryo Store. And long eve- </p><p>nings by the fire or, in summertime, on the roof of the little house, </p><p>when she told him those stories about the Other Place, outside the </p><p>Reservation: that beautiful, beautiful Other Place, whose memory, as </p><p>of a heaven, a paradise of goodness and loveliness, he still kept whole </p><p>and intact, undefiled by contact with the reality of this real London, </p><p>these actual civilized men and women. </p><p>A sudden noise of shrill voices made him open his eyes and, after </p><p>hastily brushing away the tears, look round. What seemed an intermi- </p><p>nable stream of identical eight-year-old male twins was pouring into </p><p>the room. Twin after twin, twin after twin, they came-a nightmare.</p><p>Their faces, their repeated face-for there was only one between the lot </p><p>of them-puggishly stared, all nostrils and pale goggling eyes. Their </p><p>uniform was khaki. All their mouths hung open. Squealing and chatter- </p><p>ing they entered. In a moment, it seemed, the ward was maggoty with </p><p>them. They swarmed between the beds, clambered over, crawled un- </p><p>der, peeped into the television boxes, made faces at the patients. </p><p>Linda astonished and rather alarmed them. A group stood clustered at </p><p>the foot of her bed, staring with the frightened and stupid curiosity of </p><p>animals suddenly confronted by the unknown. </p><p>"Oh, look, look!" They spoke in low, scared voices. "Whatever is the </p><p>matter with her? Why is she so fat?" </p><p>They had never seen a face like hers before-had never seen a face </p><p>that was not youthful and taut-skinned, a body that had ceased to be </p><p>slim and upright. All these moribund sexagenarians had the appear- </p><p>ance of childish girls. At forty-four, Linda seemed, by contrast, a mon- </p><p>ster of flaccid and distorted senility. </p><p>"Isn't she awful?" came the whispered comments. "Look at her teeth!" </p><p>Suddenly from under the bed a pug-faced twin popped up between </p><p>John's chair and the wall, and began peering into Linda's sleeping face. </p><p>"I say ..." he began; but the sentence ended prematurely in a squeal. </p><p>The Savage had seized him by the collar, lifted him clear over the chair </p><p>and, with a smart box on the ears, sent him howling away. </p><p>His yells brought the Head Nurse hurrying to the rescue. </p><p>"What have you been doing to him?" she demanded fiercely. "I won't </p><p>have you striking the children." </p><p>"Well then, keep them away from this bed." The Savage's voice was </p><p>trembling with indignation. "What are these filthy little brats doing </p><p>here at all? It's disgraceful!" </p><p>"Disgraceful? But what do you mean? They're being death-conditioned. </p><p>And I tell you," she warned him truculently, "if I have any more of your </p><p>interference with their conditioning, I'll send for the porters and have </p><p>you thrown out." </p><p>The Savage rose to his feet and took a couple of steps towards her. His </p><p>movements and the expression on his face were so menacing that the </p><p>nurse fell back in terror. With a great effort he checked himself and, </p><p>without speaking, turned away and sat down again by the bed. </p><p>Reassured, but with a dignity that was a trifle shrill and uncertain, </p><p>"I've warned you," said the nurse, "I've warned you," said the nurse, </p><p>"so mind." Still, she led the too inquisitive twins away and made them </p><p>join in the game of hunt-the-zipper, which had been organized by one </p><p>of her colleagues at the other end of the room. </p><p>"Run along now and have your cup of caffeine solution, dear," she said </p><p>to the other nurse. The exercise of authority restored her confidence,</p><p>made her feel better. "Now children!" she called. </p><p>Linda had stirred uneasily, had opened her eyes for a moment, looked </p><p>vaguely around, and then once more dropped off to sleep. Sitting be- </p><p>side her, the Savage tried hard to recapture his mood of a few minutes </p><p>before. "A, B, C, vitamin D," he repeated to himself, as though the </p><p>words were a spell that would restore the dead past to life. But the </p><p>spell was ineffective. Obstinately the beautiful memories refused to </p><p>rise; there was only a hateful resurrection of jealousies and uglinesses </p><p>and miseries. Pope with the blood trickling down from his cut shoulder; </p><p>and Linda hideously asleep, and the flies buzzing round the spilt mes- </p><p>cal on the floor beside the bed; and the boys calling those names as </p><p>she passed. ... Ah, no, no! He shut his eyes, he shook his head in </p><p>strenuous denial of these memories. "A, B, C, vitamin D ..." He tried to </p><p>think of those times when he sat on her knees and she put her arms </p><p>about him and sang, over and over again, rocking him, rocking him to </p><p>sleep. "A, B, C, vitamin D, vitamin D, vitamin D ..." </p><p>The Super-Vox-Wurlitzeriana had risen to a sobbing crescendo; and </p><p>suddenly the verbena gave place, in the scent-circulating system, to </p><p>an intense patchouli. Linda stirred, woke up, stared for a few seconds </p><p>bewilderly at the Semi-finalists, then, lifting her face, sniffed once or </p><p>twice at the newly perfumed air and suddenly smiled-a smile of child- </p><p>ish ecstasy. </p><p>"Pope!" she murmured, and closed her eyes. "Oh, I do so like it, I do </p><p>..." She sighed and let herself sink back into the pillows. </p><p>"But, Linda!" The Savage spoke imploringly, "Don't you know me?" He </p><p>had tried so hard, had done his very best; why wouldn't she allow him </p><p>to forget? He squeezed her limp hand almost with violence, as though </p><p>he would force her to come back from this dream of ignoble pleasures, </p><p>from these base and hateful memories-back into the present, back </p><p>into reality: the appalling present, the awful reality-but sublime, but </p><p>significant, but desperately important precisely because of the immi- </p><p>nence of that which made them so fearful. "Don't you know me, </p><p>Linda?" </p><p>He felt the faint answering pressure of her hand. The tears started into </p><p>his eyes. He bent over her and kissed her. </p><p>Her lips moved. "Pope!" she whispered again, and it was as though he </p><p>had had a pailful of ordure thrown in his face. </p><p>Anger suddenly boiled up in him. Balked for the second time, the pas- </p><p>sion of his grief had found another outlet, was transformed into a pas- </p><p>sion of agonized rage. </p><p>"But I'm John!" he shouted. "I'm John!" And in his furious misery he </p><p>actually caught her by the shoulder and shook her. </p><p>Linda's eyes fluttered open; she saw him, knew him-"John!"-but situ- </p><p>ated the real face, the real and violent hands, in an imaginary world- </p><p>among the inward and private equivalents of patchouli and the Super- </p><p>Wurlitzer, among the transfigured memories and the strangely trans- </p><p>posed sensations that constituted the universe of her dream. She</p><p>knew him for John, her son, but fancied him an intruder into that </p><p>paradisal Malpais where she had been spending her soma-holiday with </p><p>Pope. He was angry because she liked Pope, he was shaking her be- </p><p>cause Pope was there in the bed-as though there were something </p><p>wrong, as though all civilized people didn't do the same. "Every one </p><p>belongs to every ..." Her voice suddenly died into an almost inaudible </p><p>breathless croaking. Her mouth fell open: she made a desperate effort </p><p>to fill her lungs with air. But it was as though she had forgotten how to </p><p>breathe. She tried to cry out-but no sound came; only the terror of </p><p>her staring eyes revealed what she was suffering. Her hands went to </p><p>her throat, then clawed at the air-the air she could no longer breathe, </p><p>the air that, for her, had ceased to exist. </p><p>The Savage was on his feet, bent over her. "What is it, Linda? What is </p><p>it?" His voice was imploring; it was as though he were begging to be </p><p>reassured. </p><p>The look she gave him was charged with an unspeakable terror-with </p><p>terror and, it seemed to him, reproach. </p><p>She tried to raise herself in bed, but fell back on to the pillows. Her </p><p>face was horribly distorted, her lips blue. </p><p>The Savage turned and ran up the ward. </p><p>"Quick, quick!" he shouted. "Quick!" </p><p>Standing in the centre of a ring of zipper-hunting twins, the Head </p><p>Nurse looked round. The first moment's astonishment gave place al- </p><p>most instantly to disapproval. "Don't shout! Think of the little ones," </p><p>she said, frowning. "You might decondition ... But what are you doing?" </p><p>He had broken through the ring. "Be careful!" A child was yelling. </p><p>"Quick, quick!" He caught her by the sleeve, dragged her after him. </p><p>"Quick! Something's happened. I've killed her." </p><p>By the time they were back at the end of the ward Linda was dead. </p><p>The Savage stood for a moment in frozen silence, then fell on his </p><p>knees beside the bed and, covering his face with his hands, sobbed </p><p>uncontrollably. </p><p>The nurse stood irresolute, looking now at the kneeling figure by the </p><p>bed (the scandalous exhibition!) and now (poor children!) at the twins </p><p>who had stopped their hunting of the zipper and were staring from the </p><p>other end of the ward, staring with all their eyes and nostrils at the </p><p>shocking scene that was being enacted round Bed 20. Should she </p><p>speak to him? try to bring him back to a sense of decency? remind him </p><p>of where he was? of what fatal mischief he might do to these poor in- </p><p>nocents? Undoing all their wholesome death-conditioning with this dis- </p><p>gusting outcry-as though death were something terrible, as though </p><p>any one mattered as much as all that! It might give them the most </p><p>disastrous ideas about the subject, might upset them into reacting in </p><p>the entirely wrong, the utterly anti-social way. </p><p>She stepped forward, she touched him on the shoulder. "Can't you be- </p><p>have?" she said in a low, angry voice. But, looking around, she saw </p><p>that half a dozen twins were already on their feet and advancing down</p><p>the ward. The circle was disintegrating. In another moment ... No, the </p><p>risk was too great; the whole Group might be put back six or seven </p><p>months in its conditioning. She hurried back towards her menaced </p><p>charges. </p><p>"Now, who wants a chocolate eclair?" she asked in a loud, cheerful </p><p>tone. </p><p>"Me!" yelled the entire Bokanovsky Group in chorus. Bed 20 was com- </p><p>pletely forgotten. </p><p>"Oh, God, God, God ..." the Savage kept repeating to himself. In the </p><p>chaos of grief and remorse that filled his mind it was the one articulate </p><p>word. "God!" he whispered it aloud. "God ..." </p><p>"Whatever is he saying?" said a voice, very near, distinct and shrill </p><p>through the warblings of the Super-Wurlitzer. </p><p>The Savage violently started and, uncovering his face, looked round. </p><p>Five khaki twins, each with the stump of a long eclair in his right hand, </p><p>and their identical faces variously smeared with liquid chocolate, were </p><p>standing in a row, puggily goggling at him. </p><p>They met his eyes and simultaneously grinned. One of them pointed </p><p>with his eclair butt. </p><p>"Is she dead?" he asked. </p><p>The Savage stared at them for a moment in silence. Then in silence he </p><p>rose to his feet, in silence slowly walked towards the door. </p><p>"Is she dead?" repeated the inquisitive twin trotting at his side. </p><p>The Savage looked down at him and still without speaking pushed him </p><p>away. The twin fell on the floor and at once began to howl. The Savage </p><p>did not even look round. </p><p>THE menial staff of the Park Lane Hospital for the Dying consisted of </p><p>one hundred and sixty-two Deltas divided into two Bokanovsky Groups </p><p>of eighty-four red headed female and seventy-eight dark dolycho- </p><p>cephalic male twins, respectively. At six, when their working day was </p><p>over, the two Groups assembled in the vestibule of the Hospital and </p><p>were served by the Deputy Sub-Bursar with their soma ration. </p><p>From the lift the Savage stepped out into the midst of them. But his </p><p>mind was elsewhere-with death, with his grief, and his remorse; me- </p><p>chanicaly, without consciousness of what he was doing, he began to </p><p>shoulder his way through the crowd. </p><p>"Who are you pushing? Where do you think you're going?" </p><p>High, low, from a multitude of separate throats, only two voices </p><p>squeaked or growled. Repeated indefinitely, as though by a train of </p><p>mirrors, two faces, one a hairless and freckled moon haloed in orange, </p><p>the other a thin, beaked bird-mask, stubbly with two days' beard,</p><p>turned angrily towards him. Their words and, in his ribs, the sharp </p><p>nudging of elbows, broke through his unawareness. He woke once </p><p>more to external reality, looked round him, knew what he saw-knew </p><p>it, with a sinking sense of horror and disgust, for the recurrent delir- </p><p>ium of his days and nights, the nightmare of swarming indistinguish- </p><p>able sameness. Twins, twins. ... Like maggots they had swarmed defil- </p><p>ingly over the mystery of Linda's death. Maggots again, but larger, full </p><p>grown, they now crawled across his grief and his repentance. He </p><p>halted and, with bewildered and horrified eyes, stared round him at </p><p>the khaki mob, in the midst of which, overtopping it by a full head, he </p><p>stood. "How many goodly creatures are there here!" The singing words </p><p>mocked him derisively. "How beauteous mankind is! O brave new </p><p>world ..." </p><p>" Soma distribution!" shouted a loud voice. "In good order, please. </p><p>Hurry up there." </p><p>A door had been opened, a table and chair carried into the vestibule. </p><p>The voice was that of a jaunty young Alpha, who had entered carrying </p><p>a black iron cash-box. A murmur of satisfaction went up from the ex- </p><p>pectant twins. They forgot all about the Savage. Their attention was </p><p>now focused on the black cash-box, which the young man had placed </p><p>on the table, and was now in process of unlocking. The lid was lifted. </p><p>"Oo-oh!" said all the hundred and sixty-two simultaneously, as though </p><p>they were looking at fireworks. </p><p>The young man took out a handful of tiny pill-boxes. "Now," he said </p><p>peremptorily, "step forward, please. One at a time, and no shoving." </p><p>One at a time, with no shoving, the twins stepped forward. First two </p><p>males, then a female, then another male, then three females, then ... </p><p>The Savage stood looking on. "O brave new world, O brave new world </p><p>..." In his mind the singing words seemed to change their tone. They </p><p>had mocked him through his misery and remorse, mocked him with </p><p>how hideous a note of cynical derision! Fiendishly laughing, they had </p><p>insisted on the low squalor, the nauseous ugliness of the nightmare. </p><p>Now, suddenly, they trumpeted a call to arms. "O brave new world!" </p><p>Miranda was proclaiming the possibility of loveliness, the possibility of </p><p>transforming even the nightmare into something fine and noble. "O </p><p>brave new world!" It was a challenge, a command. </p><p>"No shoving there now!" shouted the Deputy Sub-Bursar in a fury. He </p><p>slammed down he lid of his cash-box. "I shall stop the distribution un- </p><p>less I have good behaviour." </p><p>The Deltas muttered, jostled one another a little, and then were still. </p><p>The threat had been effective. Deprivation of soma-appalling thought! </p><p>"That's better," said the young man, and reopened his cash-box. </p><p>Linda had been a slave, Linda had died; others should live in freedom,</p><p>and the world be made beautiful. A reparation, a duty. And suddenly it </p><p>was luminously clear to the Savage what he must do; it was as though </p><p>a shutter had been opened, a curtain drawn back. </p><p>"Now," said the Deputy Sub-Bursar. </p><p>Another khaki female stepped forward. </p><p>"Stop!" called the Savage in a loud and ringing voice. "Stop!" </p><p>He pushed his way to the table; the Deltas stared at him with aston- </p><p>ishment. </p><p>"Ford!" said the Deputy Sub-Bursar, below his breath. "It's the Sav- </p><p>age." He felt scared. </p><p>"Listen, I beg of you," cried the Savage earnestly. "Lend me your ears </p><p>..." He had never spoken in public before, and found it very difficult to </p><p>express what he wanted to say. "Don't take that horrible stuff. It's poi- </p><p>son, it's poison." </p><p>"I say, Mr. Savage," said the Deputy Sub-Bursar, smiling propitiatingly. </p><p>"Would you mind letting me ..." </p><p>"Poison to soul as well as body." </p><p>"Yes, but let me get on with my distribution, won't you? There's a good </p><p>fellow." With the cautious tenderness of one who strokes a notoriously </p><p>vicious animal, he patted the Savage's arm. "Just let me ..." </p><p>"Never!" cried the Savage. </p><p>"But look here, old man ..." </p><p>"Throw it all away, that horrible poison." </p><p>The words "Throw it all away" pierced through the enfolding layers of </p><p>incomprehension to the quick of the Delta's consciousness. An angry </p><p>murmur went up from the crowd. </p><p>"I come to bring you freedom," said the Savage, turning back towards </p><p>the twins. "I come ..." </p><p>The Deputy Sub-Bursar heard no more; he had slipped out of the ves- </p><p>tibule and was looking up a number in the telephone book. </p><p>"Not in his own rooms," Bernard summed up. "Not in mine, not in </p><p>yours. Not at the Aphroditaum; not at the Centre or the College. </p><p>Where can he have got to?" </p><p>Helmholtz shrugged his shoulders. They had come back from their </p><p>work expecting to find the Savage waiting for them at one or other of </p><p>the usual meeting-places, and there was no sign of the fellow. Which </p><p>was annoying, as they had meant to nip across to Biarritz in Helm- </p><p>holtz's four-seater sporticopter. They'd be late for dinner if he didn't </p><p>come soon.</p><p>"We'll give him five more minutes," said Helmholtz. "If he doesn't turn </p><p>up by then, we'll ..." </p><p>The ringing of the telephone bell interrupted him. He picked up the re- </p><p>ceiver. "Hullo. Speaking." Then, after a long interval of listening, "Ford </p><p>in Flivver!" he swore. "I'll come at once." </p><p>"What is it?" Bernard asked. </p><p>"A fellow I know at the Park Lane Hospital," said Helmholtz. "The Sav- </p><p>age is there. Seems to have gone mad. Anyhow, it's urgent. Will you </p><p>come with me?" </p><p>Together they hurried along the corridor to the lifts. </p><p>"But do you like being slaves?" the Savage was saying as they entered </p><p>the Hospital. His face was flushed, his eyes bright with ardour and in- </p><p>dignation. "Do you like being babies? Yes, babies. Mewling and puk- </p><p>ing," he added, exasperated by their bestial stupidity into throwing in- </p><p>suits at those he had come to save. The insults bounced off their cara- </p><p>pace of thick stupidity; they stared at him with a blank expression of </p><p>dull and sullen resentment in their eyes. "Yes, puking!" he fairly </p><p>shouted. Grief and remorse, compassion and duty-all were forgotten </p><p>now and, as it were, absorbed into an intense overpowering hatred of </p><p>these less than human monsters. "Don't you want to be free and men? </p><p>Don't you even understand what manhood and freedom are?" Rage </p><p>was making him fluent; the words came easily, in a rush. "Don't you?" </p><p>he repeated, but got no answer to his question. "Very well then," he </p><p>went on grimly. "I'll teach you; I'll make you be free whether you want </p><p>to or not." And pushing open a window that looked on to the inner </p><p>court of the Hospital, he began to throw the little pill-boxes of soma </p><p>tablets in handfuls out into the area. </p><p>For a moment the khaki mob was silent, petrified, at the spectacle of </p><p>this wanton sacrilege, with amazement and horror. </p><p>"He's mad," whispered Bernard, staring with wide open eyes. "They'll </p><p>kill him. They'll ..." A great shout suddenly went up from the mob; a </p><p>wave of movement drove it menacingly towards the Savage. "Ford </p><p>help him!" said Bernard, and averted his eyes. </p><p>"Ford helps those who help themselves." And with a laugh, actually a </p><p>laugh of exultation, Helmholtz Watson pushed his way through the </p><p>crowd. </p><p>"Free, free!" the Savage shouted, and with one hand continued to </p><p>throw the soma into the area while, with the other, he punched the in- </p><p>distinguishable faces of his assailants. "Free!" And suddenly there was </p><p>Helmholtz at his side-"Good old Helmholtz!"-also punching-"Men at </p><p>last!"-and in the interval also throwing the poison out by handfuls </p><p>through the open window. "Yes, men! men!" and there was no more </p><p>poison left. He picked up the cash-box and showed them its black </p><p>emptiness. "You're free!" </p><p>Howling, the Deltas charged with a redoubled fury.</p><p>Hesitant on the fringes of the battle. "They're done for," said Bernard </p><p>and, urged by a sudden impulse, ran forward to help them; then </p><p>thought better of it and halted; then, ashamed, stepped forward </p><p>again; then again thought better of it, and was standing in an agony of </p><p>humiliated indecision-thinking that they might be killed if he didn't </p><p>help them, and that he might be killed if he did-when (Ford be </p><p>praised!), goggle-eyed and swine-snouted in their gas-masks, in ran </p><p>the police. </p><p>Bernard dashed to meet them. He waved his arms; and it was action, </p><p>he was doing something. He shouted "Help!" several times, more and </p><p>more loudly so as to give himself the illusion of helping. "Help! Help! </p><p>HELP!" </p><p>The policemen pushed him out of the way and got on with their work. </p><p>Three men with spraying machines buckled to their shoulders pumped </p><p>thick clouds of soma vapour into the air. Two more were busy round </p><p>the portable Synthetic Music Box. Carrying water pistols charged with </p><p>a powerful anaesthetic, four others had pushed their way into the </p><p>crowd and were methodically laying out, squirt by squirt, the more fe- </p><p>rocious of the fighters. </p><p>"Quick, quick!" yelled Bernard. "They'll be killed if you don't hurry. </p><p>They'll ... Oh!" Annoyed by his chatter, one of the policemen had given </p><p>him a shot from his water pistol. Bernard stood for a second or two </p><p>wambling unsteadily on legs that seemed to have lost their bones, </p><p>their tendons, their muscles, to have become mere sticks of jelly, and </p><p>at last not even jelly-water: he tumbled in a heap on the floor. </p><p>Suddenly, from out of the Synthetic Music Box a Voice began to speak. </p><p>The Voice of Reason, the Voice of Good Feeling. The sound-track roll </p><p>was unwinding itself in Synthetic Anti-Riot Speech Number Two (Me- </p><p>dium Strength). Straight from the depths of a non-existent heart, "My </p><p>friends, my friends!" said the Voice so pathetically, with a note of such </p><p>infinitely tender reproach that, behind their gas masks, even the po- </p><p>licemen's eyes were momentarily dimmed with tears, "what is the </p><p>meaning of this? Why aren't you all being happy and good together? </p><p>Happy and good," the Voice repeated. "At peace, at peace." It trem- </p><p>bled, sank into a whisper and momentarily expired. "Oh, I do want you </p><p>to be happy," it began, with a yearning earnestness. "I do so want you </p><p>to be good! Please, please be good and ..." </p><p>Two minutes later the Voice and the soma vapour had produced their </p><p>effect. In tears, the Deltas were kissing and hugging one another-half </p><p>a dozen twins at a time in a comprehensive embrace. Even Helmholtz </p><p>and the Savage were almost crying. A fresh supply of pill-boxes was </p><p>brought in from the Bursary; a new distribution was hastily made and, </p><p>to the sound of the Voice's richly affectionate, baritone valedictions, </p><p>the twins dispersed, blubbering as though their hearts would break. </p><p>"Good-bye, my dearest, dearest friends, Ford keep you! Good-bye, my </p><p>dearest, dearest friends, Ford keep you. Good-bye my dearest, dearest </p><p>When the last of the Deltas had gone the policeman switched off the </p><p>current. The angelic Voice fell silent. </p><p>"Will you come quietly?" asked the Sergeant, "or must we anaesthe- </p><p>tize?" He pointed his water pistol menacingly. </p><p>"Oh, we'll come quietly," the Savage answered, dabbing alternately a </p><p>cut lip, a scratched neck, and a bitten left hand. </p><p>Still keeping his handkerchief to his bleeding nose Helmholtz nodded in </p><p>confirmation. </p><p>Awake and having recovered the use of his legs, Bernard had chosen </p><p>this moment to move as inconspicuously as he could towards the door. </p><p>"Hi, you there," called the Sergeant, and a swine-masked policeman </p><p>hurried across the room and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. </p><p>Bernard turned with an expression of indignant innocence. Escaping? </p><p>He hadn't dreamed of such a thing. "Though what on earth you want </p><p>me for," he said to the Sergeant, "I really can't imagine." </p><p>"You're a friend of the prisoner's, aren't you?" </p><p>"Well ..." said Bernard, and hesitated. No, he really couldn't deny it. </p><p>"Why shouldn't I be?" he asked. </p><p>"Come on then," said the Sergeant, and led the way towards the door </p><p>and the waiting police car. </p><p>THE ROOM into which the three were ushered was the Controller's </p><p>study. </p><p>"His fordship will be down in a moment." The Gamma butler left them </p><p>to themselves. </p><p>Helmholtz laughed aloud. </p><p>"It's more like a caffeine-solution party than a trial," he said, and let </p><p>himself fall into the most luxurious of the pneumatic arm-chairs. </p><p>"Cheer up, Bernard," he added, catching sight of his friend's green un- </p><p>happy face. But Bernard would not be cheered; without answering, </p><p>without even looking at Helmholtz, he went and sat down on the most </p><p>uncomfortable chair in the room, carefully chosen in the obscure hope </p><p>of somehow deprecating the wrath of the higher powers. </p><p>The Savage meanwhile wandered restlessly round the room, peering </p><p>with a vague superficial inquisitiveness at the books in the shelves, at </p><p>the sound-track rolls and reading machine bobbins in their numbered </p><p>pigeon-holes. On the table under the window lay a massive volume </p><p>bound in limp black leather-surrogate, and stamped with large golden </p><p>T's. He picked it up and opened it. MY LIFE AND WORK, BY OUR FORD. </p><p>The book had been published at Detroit by the Society for the Propa- </p><p>gation of Fordian Knowledge. Idly he turned the pages, read a sen- </p><p>tence here, a paragraph there, and had just come to the conclusion </p><p>that the book didn't interest him, when the door opened, and the Resi- </p><p>dent World Controller for Western Europe walked briskly into the room. </p><p>Mustapha Mond shook hands with all three of them; but it was to the </p><p>Savage that he addressed himself. "So you don't much like civilization, </p><p>Mr. Savage," he said. </p><p>The Savage looked at him. He had been prepared to lie, to bluster, to </p><p>remain sullenly unresponsive; but, reassured by the good-humoured </p><p>intelligence of the Controller's face, he decided to tell the truth, </p><p>straightforwardly. "No." He shook his head. </p><p>Bernard started and looked horrified. What would the Controller think? </p><p>To be labelled as the friend of a man who said that he didn't like civili- </p><p>zation-said it openly and, of all people, to the Controller-it was terri- </p><p>ble. "But, John," he began. A look from Mustapha Mond reduced him </p><p>to an abject silence. </p><p>"Of course," the Savage went on to admit, "there are some very nice </p><p>things. All that music in the air, for instance ..." </p><p>"Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments will hum about my ears </p><p>and sometimes voices." </p><p>The Savage's face lit up with a sudden pleasure. "Have you read it </p><p>too?" he asked. "I thought nobody knew about that book here, in Eng- </p><p>land." </p><p>"Almost nobody. I'm one of the very few. It's prohibited, you see. But </p><p>as I make the laws here, I can also break them. With impunity, Mr. </p><p>Marx," he added, turning to Bernard. "Which I'm afraid you can't do." </p><p>Bernard sank into a yet more hopeless misery. </p><p>"But why is it prohibited?" asked the Savage. In the excitement of </p><p>meeting a man who had read Shakespeare he had momentarily forgot- </p><p>ten everything else. </p><p>The Controller shrugged his shoulders. "Because it's old; that's the </p><p>chief reason. We haven't any use for old things here." </p><p>"Even when they're beautiful?" </p><p>"Particularly when they're beautiful. Beauty's attractive, and we don't </p><p>want people to be attracted by old things. We want them to like the </p><p>new ones." </p><p>"But the new ones are so stupid and horrible. Those plays, where </p><p>there's nothing but helicopters flying about and you feel the people </p><p>kissing." He made a grimace. "Goats and monkeys!" Only in Othello's </p><p>word could he find an adequate vehicle for his contempt and hatred. </p><p>"Nice tame animals, anyhow," the Controller murmured parentheti-</p><p>cally. </p><p>"Why don't you let them see Othello instead?" </p><p>"I've told you; it's old. Besides, they couldn't understand it." </p><p>Yes, that was true. He remembered how Helmholtz had laughed at </p><p>Romeo and Juliet. "Well then," he said, after a pause, "something new </p><p>that's like Othello , and that they could understand." </p><p>"That's what we've all been wanting to write," said Helmholtz, breaking </p><p>a long silence. </p><p>"And it's what you never will write," said the Controller. "Because, if it </p><p>were really like Othello nobody could understand it, however new it </p><p>might be. And if were new, it couldn't possibly be like Othello." </p><p>"Why not?" </p><p>"Yes, why not?" Helmholtz repeated. He too was forgetting the un- </p><p>pleasant realities of the situation. Green with anxiety and apprehen- </p><p>sion, only Bernard remembered them; the others ignored him. "Why </p><p>not?" </p><p>"Because our world is not the same as Othello's world. You can't make </p><p>flivvers without steel-and you can't make tragedies without social in- </p><p>stability. The world's stable now. People are happy; they get what they </p><p>want, and they never want what they can't get. They're well off; </p><p>they're safe; they're never ill; they're not afraid of death; they're bliss- </p><p>fully ignorant of passion and old age; they're plagued with no mothers </p><p>or fathers; they've got no wives, or children, or lovers to feel strongly </p><p>about; they're so conditioned that they practically can't help behaving </p><p>as they ought to behave. And if anything should go wrong, there's </p><p>soma. Which you go and chuck out of the window in the name of lib- </p><p>erty, Mr. Savage. Liberty!" He laughed. "Expecting Deltas to know what </p><p>liberty is! And now expecting them to understand Othello! My good </p><p>boy!" </p><p>The Savage was silent for a little. "All the same," he insisted obsti- </p><p>nately, "Othello's good, Othello's better than those feelies." </p><p>"Of course it is," the Controller agreed. "But that's the price we have </p><p>to pay for stability. You've got to choose between happiness and what </p><p>people used to call high art. We've sacrificed the high art. We have the </p><p>feelies and the scent organ instead." </p><p>"But they don't mean anything." </p><p>"They mean themselves; they mean a lot of agreeable sensations to </p><p>the audience." </p><p>"But they're ... they're told by an idiot." </p><p>The Controller laughed. "You're not being very polite to your friend, Mr. </p><p>Watson. One of our most distinguished Emotional Engineers ..." </p><p>"But he's right," said Helmholtz gloomily. "Because it is idiotic. Writing </p><p>when there's nothing to say ..." </p><p>"Precisely. But that requires the most enormous ingenuity. You're mak- </p><p>ing flivvers out of the absolute minimum of steel-works of art out of </p><p>practically nothing but pure sensation." </p><p>The Savage shook his head. "It all seems to me quite horrible." </p><p>"Of course it does. Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in </p><p>comparison with the over-compensations for misery. And, of course, </p><p>stability isn't nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented </p><p>has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of </p><p>the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow </p><p>by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand." </p><p>"I suppose not," said the Savage after a silence. "But need it be quite </p><p>so bad as those twins?" He passed his hand over his eyes as though he </p><p>were trying to wipe away the remembered image of those long rows of </p><p>identical midgets at the assembling tables, those queued-up twin- </p><p>herds at the entrance to the Brentford monorail station, those human </p><p>maggots swarming round Linda's bed of death, the endlessly repeated </p><p>face of his assailants. He looked at his bandaged left hand and shud- </p><p>dered. "Horrible!" </p><p>"But how useful! I see you don't like our Bokanovsky Groups; but, I </p><p>assure you, they're the foundation on which everything else is built. </p><p>They're the gyroscope that stabilizes the rocket plane of state on its </p><p>unswerving course." The deep voice thrillingly vibrated; the gesticulat- </p><p>ing hand implied all space and the onrush of the irresistible machine. </p><p>Mustapha Mond's oratory was almost up to synthetic standards. </p><p>"I was wondering," said the Savage, "why you had them at all-seeing </p><p>that you can get whatever you want out of those bottles. Why don't </p><p>you make everybody an Alpha Double Plus while you're about it?" </p><p>Mustapha Mond laughed. "Because we have no wish to have our </p><p>throats cut," he answered. "We believe in happiness and stability. A </p><p>society of Alphas couldn't fail to be unstable and miserable. Imagine a </p><p>factory staffed by Alphas-that is to say by separate and unrelated in- </p><p>dividuals of good heredity and conditioned so as to be capable (within </p><p>limits) of making a free choice and assuming responsibilities. Imagine </p><p>it!" he repeated. </p><p>The Savage tried to imagine it, not very successfully. </p><p>"It's an absurdity. An Alpha-decanted, Alpha-conditioned man would </p><p>go mad if he had to do Epsilon Semi-Moron work-go mad, or start </p><p>smashing things up. Alphas can be completely socialized-but only on </p><p>condition that you make them do Alpha work. Only an Epsilon can be </p><p>expected to make Epsilon sacrifices, for the good reason that for him </p><p>they aren't sacrifices; they're the line of least resistance. His condition- </p><p>ing has laid down rails along which he's got to run. He can't help him- </p><p>self; he's foredoomed. Even after decanting, he's still inside a bot- </p><p>tle-an invisible bottle of infantile and embryonic fixations. Each one of </p><p>us, of course," the Controller meditatively continued, "goes through </p><p>life inside a bottle. But if we happen to be Alphas, our bottles are, rela-</p><p>tively speaking, enormous. We should suffer acutely if we were con- </p><p>fined in a narrower space. You cannot pour upper-caste champagne- </p><p>surrogate into lower-caste bottles. It's obvious theoretically. But it has </p><p>also been proved in actual practice. The result of the Cyprus experi- </p><p>ment was convincing." </p><p>"What was that?" asked the Savage. </p><p>Mustapha Mond smiled. "Well, you can call it an experiment in rebot- </p><p>tling if you like. It began in A.F. 473. The Controllers had the island of </p><p>Cyprus cleared of all its existing inhabitants and re-colonized with a </p><p>specially prepared batch of twenty-two thousand Alphas. All agricul- </p><p>tural and industrial equipment was handed over to them and they were </p><p>left to manage their own affairs. The result exactly fulfilled all the </p><p>theoretical predictions. The land wasn't properly worked; there were </p><p>strikes in all the factories; the laws were set at naught, orders dis- </p><p>obeyed; all the people detailed for a spell of low-grade work were per- </p><p>petually intriguing for high-grade jobs, and all the people with high- </p><p>grade jobs were counter-intriguing at all costs to stay where they </p><p>were. Within six years they were having a first-class civil war. When </p><p>nineteen out of the twenty-two thousand had been killed, the survivors </p><p>unanimously petitioned the World Controllers to resume the govern- </p><p>ment of the island. Which they did. And that was the end of the only </p><p>society of Alphas that the world has ever seen." </p><p>The Savage sighed, profoundly. </p><p>"The optimum population," said Mustapha Mond, "is modelled on the </p><p>iceberg-eight-ninths below the water line, one-ninth above." </p><p>"And they're happy below the water line?" </p><p>"Happier than above it. Happier than your friend here, for example." </p><p>He pointed. </p><p>"In spite of that awful work?" </p><p>"Awful? They don't find it so. On the contrary, they like it. It's light, it's </p><p>childishly simple. No strain on the mind or the muscles. Seven and a </p><p>half hours of mild, unexhausting labour, and then the soma ration and </p><p>games and unrestricted copulation and the feelies. What more can </p><p>they ask for? True," he added, "they might ask for shorter hours. And </p><p>of course we could give them shorter hours. Technically, it would be </p><p>perfectly simple to reduce all lower-caste working hours to three or </p><p>four a day. But would they be any the happier for that? No, they </p><p>wouldn't. The experiment was tried, more than a century and a half </p><p>ago. The whole of Ireland was put on to the four-hour day. What was </p><p>the result? Unrest and a large increase in the consumption of soma; </p><p>that was all. Those three and a half hours of extra leisure were so far </p><p>from being a source of happiness, that people felt constrained to take </p><p>a holiday from them. The Inventions Office is stuffed with plans for </p><p>labour-saving processes. Thousands of them." Mustapha Mond made a</p><p>lavish gesture. "And why don't we put them into execution? For the </p><p>sake of the labourers; it would be sheer cruelty to afflict them with ex- </p><p>cessive leisure. It's the same with agriculture. We could synthesize </p><p>every morsel of food, if we wanted to. But we don't. We prefer to keep </p><p>a third of the population on the land. For their own sakes-because it </p><p>takes longer to get food out of the land than out of a factory. Besides, </p><p>we have our stability to think of. We don't want to change. Every </p><p>change is a menace to stability. That's another reason why we're so </p><p>chary of applying new inventions. Every discovery in pure science is </p><p>potentially subversive; even science must sometimes be treated as a </p><p>possible enemy. Yes, even science." </p><p>Science? The Savage frowned. He knew the word. But what it exactly </p><p>signified he could not say. Shakespeare and the old men of the pueblo </p><p>had never mentioned science, and from Linda he had only gathered </p><p>the vaguest hints: science was something you made helicopters with, </p><p>some thing that caused you to laugh at the Corn Dances, something </p><p>that prevented you from being wrinkled and losing your teeth. He </p><p>made a desperate effort to take the Controller's meaning. </p><p>"Yes," Mustapha Mond was saying, "that's another item in the cost of </p><p>stability. It isn't only art that's incompatible with happiness; it's also </p><p>science. Science is dangerous; we have to keep it most carefully </p><p>chained and muzzled." </p><p>"What?" said Helmholtz, in astonishment. "But we're always saying </p><p>that science is everything. It's a hypnopaedic platitude." </p><p>"Three times a week between thirteen and seventeen," put in Bernard. </p><p>"And all the science propaganda we do at the College ..." </p><p>"Yes; but what sort of science?" asked Mustapha Mond sarcastically. </p><p>"You've had no scientific training, so you can't judge. I was a pretty </p><p>good physicist in my time. Too good-good enough to realize that all </p><p>our science is just a cookery book, with an orthodox theory of cooking </p><p>that nobody's allowed to question, and a list of recipes that mustn't be </p><p>added to except by special permission from the head cook. I'm the </p><p>head cook now. But I was an inquisitive young scullion once. I started </p><p>doing a bit of cooking on my own. Unorthodox cooking, illicit cooking. </p><p>A bit of real science, in fact." He was silent. </p><p>"What happened?" asked Helmholtz Watson. </p><p>The Controller sighed. "Very nearly what's going to happen to you </p><p>young men. I was on the point of being sent to an island." </p><p>The words galvanized Bernard into violent and unseemly activity. </p><p>"Send me to an island?" He jumped up, ran across the room, and </p><p>stood gesticulating in front of the Controller. "You can't send me. I </p><p>haven't done anything. It was the others. I swear it was the others." </p><p>He pointed accusingly to Helmholtz and the Savage. "Oh, please don't </p><p>send me to Iceland. I promise I'll do what I ought to do. Give me an- </p><p>other chance. Please give me another chance." The tears began to</p><p>flow. "I tell you, it's their fault," he sobbed. "And not to Iceland. Oh </p><p>please, your fordship, please ..." And in a paroxysm of abjection he </p><p>threw himself on his knees before the Controller. Mustapha Mond tried </p><p>to make him get up; but Bernard persisted in his grovelling; the </p><p>stream of words poured out inexhaustibly. In the end the Controller </p><p>had to ring for his fourth secretary. </p><p>"Bring three men," he ordered, "and take Mr. Marx into a bedroom. </p><p>Give him a good soma vaporization and then put him to bed and leave </p><p>him." </p><p>The fourth secretary went out and returned with three green- </p><p>uniformed twin footmen. Still shouting and sobbing. Bernard was car- </p><p>ried out. </p><p>"One would think he was going to have his throat cut," said the Con- </p><p>troller, as the door closed. "Whereas, if he had the smallest sense, he'd </p><p>understand that his punishment is really a reward. He's being sent to </p><p>an island. That's to say, he's being sent to a place where he'll meet the </p><p>most interesting set of men and women to be found anywhere in the </p><p>world. All the people who, for one reason or another, have got too self- </p><p>consciously individual to fit into community-life. All the people who </p><p>aren't satisfied with orthodoxy, who've got independent ideas of their </p><p>own. Every one, in a word, who's any one. I almost envy you, Mr. Wat- </p><p>son." </p><p>Helmholtz laughed. "Then why aren't you on an island yourself?" </p><p>"Because, finally, I preferred this," the Controller answered. "I was </p><p>given the choice: to be sent to an island, where I could have got on </p><p>with my pure science, or to be taken on to the Controllers' Council with </p><p>the prospect of succeeding in due course to an actual Controllership. I </p><p>chose this and let the science go." After a little silence, "Sometimes," </p><p>he added, "I rather regret the science. Happiness is a hard mas- </p><p>ter-particularly other people's happiness. A much harder master, if one </p><p>isn't conditioned to accept it unquestioningly, than truth." He sighed, </p><p>fell silent again, then continued in a brisker tone, "Well, duty's duty. </p><p>One can't consult one's own preference. I'm interested in truth, I like </p><p>science. But truth's a menace, science is a public danger. As dangerous </p><p>as it's been beneficent. It has given us the stablest equilibrium in his- </p><p>tory. China's was hopelessly insecure by comparison; even the primi- </p><p>tive matriarchies weren't steadier than we are. Thanks, I repeat, to </p><p>science. But we can't allow science to undo its own good work. That's </p><p>why we so carefully limit the scope of its researches-that's why I al- </p><p>most got sent to an island. We don't allow it to deal with any but the </p><p>most immediate problems of the moment. All other enquiries are most </p><p>sedulously discouraged. It's curious," he went on after a little pause, </p><p>"to read what people in the time of Our Ford used to write about scien- </p><p>tific progress. They seemed to have imagined that it could be allowed </p><p>to go on indefinitely, regardless of everything else. Knowledge was the </p><p>highest good, truth the supreme value; all the rest was secondary and </p><p>subordinate. True, ideas were beginning to change even then. Our Ford </p><p>himself did a great deal to shift the emphasis from truth and beauty to </p><p>comfort and happiness. Mass production demanded the shift. Universal</p><p>happiness keeps the wheels steadily turning; truth and beauty can't. </p><p>And, of course, whenever the masses seized political power, then it </p><p>was happiness rather than truth and beauty that mattered. Still, in </p><p>spite of everytung, unrestricted scientific research was still permitted. </p><p>People still went on talking about truth and beauty as though they </p><p>were the sovereign goods. Right up to the time of the Nine Years' War. </p><p>That made them change their tune all right. What's the point of truth </p><p>or beauty or knowledge when the anthrax bombs are popping all </p><p>around you? That was when science first began to be controlled-after </p><p>the Nine Years' War. People were ready to have even their appetites </p><p>controlled then. Anything for a quiet life. We've gone on controlling </p><p>ever since. It hasn't been very good for truth, of course. But it's been </p><p>very good for happiness. One can't have something for nothing. Hap- </p><p>piness has got to be paid for. You're paying for it, Mr. Watson-paying </p><p>because you happen to be too much interested in beauty. I was too </p><p>much interested in truth; I paid too." </p><p>"But you didn't go to an island," said the Savage, breaking a long si- </p><p>lence. </p><p>The Controller smiled. "That's how I paid. By choosing to serve happi- </p><p>ness. Other people's-not mine. It's lucky," he added, after a pause, </p><p>"that there are such a lot of islands in the world. I don't know what we </p><p>should do without them. Put you all in the lethal chamber, I suppose. </p><p>By the way, Mr. Watson, would you like a tropical climate? The Mar- </p><p>quesas, for example; or Samoa? Or something rather more bracing?" </p><p>Helmholtz rose from his pneumatic chair. "I should like a thoroughly </p><p>bad climate," he answered. "I believe one would write better if the cli- </p><p>mate were bad. If there were a lot of wind and storms, for example ..." </p><p>The Controller nodded his approbation. "I like your spirit, Mr. Watson. I </p><p>like it very much indeed. As much as I officially disapprove of it." He </p><p>smiled. "What about the Falkland Islands?" </p><p>"Yes, I think that will do," Helmholtz answered. "And now, if you don't </p><p>mind, I'll go and see how poor Bernard's getting on." </p><p>ART, SCIENCE-you seem to have paid a fairly high price for your hap- </p><p>piness," said the Savage, when they were alone. "Anything else?" </p><p>"Well, religion, of course," replied the Controller. "There used to be </p><p>something called God-before the Nine Years' War. But I was forgetting; </p><p>you know all about God, I suppose." </p><p>"Well ..." The Savage hesitated. He would have liked to say something </p><p>about solitude, about night, about the mesa lying pale under the </p><p>moon, about the precipice, the plunge into shadowy darkness, about </p><p>death. He would have liked to speak; but there were no words. Not </p><p>even in Shakespeare. </p><p>The Controller, meanwhile, had crossed to the other side of the room </p><p>and was unlocking a large safe set into the wall between the book- </p><p>shelves. The heavy door swung open. Rummaging in the darkness</p><p>within, "It's a subject," he said, "that has always had a great interest </p><p>for me." He pulled out a thick black volume. "You've never read this, </p><p>for example." </p><p>The Savage took it. "The Holy Bible, containing the Old and New Tes- </p><p>taments," he read aloud from the title-page. </p><p>"Nor this." It was a small book and had lost its cover. </p><p>"The Imitation of Christ. " </p><p>"Nor this." He handed out another volume. </p><p>"The Varieties of Religious Experience. By William James." </p><p>"And I've got plenty more," Mustapha Mond continued, resuming his </p><p>seat. "A whole collection of pornographic old books. God in the safe </p><p>and Ford on the shelves." He pointed with a laugh to his avowed li- </p><p>brary-to the shelves of books, the rack full of reading-machine bob- </p><p>bins and sound-track rolls. </p><p>"But if you know about God, why don't you tell them?" asked the Sav- </p><p>age indignantly. "Why don't you give them these books about God?" </p><p>"For the same reason as we don't give them Othello: they're old; </p><p>they're about God hundreds of years ago. Not about God now." </p><p>"But God doesn't change." </p><p>"Men do, though." </p><p>"What difference does that make?" </p><p>"All the difference in the world," said Mustapha Mond. He got up again </p><p>and walked to the safe. "There was a man called Cardinal Newman," </p><p>he said. "A cardinal," he exclaimed parenthetically, "was a kind of </p><p>Arch-Community-Songster." </p><p>'"I Pandulph, of fair Milan, cardinal.' I've read about them in Shake- </p><p>speare." </p><p>"Of course you have. Well, as I was saying, there was a man called </p><p>Cardinal Newman. Ah, here's the book." He pulled it out. "And while </p><p>I'm about it I'll take this one too. It's by a man called Maine de Biran. </p><p>He was a philosopher, if you know what that was." </p><p>"A man who dreams of fewer things than there are in heaven and </p><p>earth," said the Savage promptly. </p><p>"Quite so. I'll read you one of the things he did dream of in a moment. </p><p>Meanwhile, listen to what this old Arch-Community-Songster said." He </p><p>opened the book at the place marked by a slip of paper and began to </p><p>read. "'We are not our own any more than what we possess is our </p><p>own. We did not make ourselves, we cannot be supreme over our- </p><p>selves. We are not our own masters. We are God's property. Is it not </p><p>our happiness thus to view the matter? Is it any happiness or any </p><p>comfort, to consider that we are our own? It may be thought so by the</p><p>young and prosperous. These may think it a great thing to have every- </p><p>thing, as they suppose, their own way-to depend on no one-to have </p><p>to think of nothing out of sight, to be without the irksomeness of con- </p><p>tinual acknowledgment, continual prayer, continual reference of what </p><p>they do to the will of another. But as time goes on, they, as all men, </p><p>will find that independence was not made for man-that it is an unnatu- </p><p>ral state-will do for a while, but will not carry us on safely to the end </p><p>Mustapha Mond paused, put down the first book and, picking up </p><p>the other, turned over the pages. "Take this, for example," he said, </p><p>and in his deep voice once more began to read: '"A man grows old; he </p><p>feels in himself that radical sense of weakness, of listlessness, of dis- </p><p>comfort, which accompanies the advance of age; and, feeling thus, </p><p>imagines himself merely sick, lulling his fears with the notion that this </p><p>distressing condition is due to some particular cause, from which, as </p><p>from an illness, he hopes to recover. Vain imaginings! That sickness is </p><p>old age; and a horrible disease it is. They say that it is the fear of </p><p>death and of what comes after death that makes men turn to religion </p><p>as they advance in years. But my own experience has given me the </p><p>conviction that, quite apart from any such terrors or imaginings, the </p><p>religious sentiment tends to develop as we grow older; to develop be- </p><p>cause, as the passions grow calm, as the fancy and sensibilities are </p><p>less excited and less excitable, our reason becomes less troubled in its </p><p>working, less obscured by the images, desires and distractions, in </p><p>which it used to be absorbed; whereupon God emerges as from behind </p><p>a cloud; our soul feels, sees, turns towards the source of all light; </p><p>turns naturally and inevitably; for now that all that gave to the world </p><p>of sensations its life and charms has begun to leak away from us, now </p><p>that phenomenal existence is no more bolstered up by impressions </p><p>from within or from without, we feel the need to lean on something </p><p>that abides, something that will never play us false-a reality, an abso- </p><p>lute and everlasting truth. Yes, we inevitably turn to God; for this re- </p><p>ligious sentiment is of its nature so pure, so delightful to the soul that </p><p>experiences it, that it makes up to us for all our other losses.'" Musta- </p><p>pha Mond shut the book and leaned back in his chair. "One of the nu- </p><p>merous things in heaven and earth that these philosophers didn't </p><p>dream about was this" (he waved his hand), "us, the modern world. </p><p>'You can only be independent of God while you've got youth and pros- </p><p>perity; independence won't take you safely to the end.' Well, we've </p><p>now got youth and prosperity right up to the end. What follows? Evi- </p><p>dently, that we can be independent of God. 'The religious sentiment </p><p>will compensate us for all our losses.' But there aren't any losses for us </p><p>to compensate; religious sentiment is superfluous. And why should we </p><p>go hunting for a substitute for youthful desires, when youthful desires </p><p>never fail? A substitute for distractions, when we go on enjoying all the </p><p>old fooleries to the very last? What need have we of repose when our </p><p>minds and bodies continue to delight in activity? of consolation, when </p><p>we have soma ? of something immovable, when there is the social or- </p><p>der?" </p><p>"Then you think there is no God?" </p><p>"No, I think there quite probably is one." </p><p>"Then why? ..." </p><p>Mustapha Mond checked him. "But he manifests himself in different </p><p>ways to different men. In premodern times he manifested himself as </p><p>the being that's described in these books. Now ..." </p><p>"How does he manifest himself now?" asked the Savage. </p><p>"Well, he manifests himself as an absence; as though he weren't there </p><p>at all." </p><p>"That's your fault." </p><p>"Call it the fault of civilization. God isn't compatible with machinery </p><p>and scientific medicine and universal happiness. You must make your </p><p>choice. Our civilization has chosen machinery and medicine and happi- </p><p>ness. That's why I have to keep these books locked up in the safe. </p><p>They're smut. People would be shocked it ..." </p><p>The Savage interrupted him. "But isn't it natural to feel there's a God?" </p><p>"You might as well ask if it's natural to do up one's trousers with zip- </p><p>pers," said the Controller sarcastically. "You remind me of another of </p><p>those old fellows called Bradley. He defined philosophy as the finding </p><p>of bad reason for what one believes by instinct. As if one believed any- </p><p>thing by instinct! One believes things because one has been condi- </p><p>tioned to believe them. Finding bad reasons for what one believes for </p><p>other bad reasons-that's philosophy. People believe in God because </p><p>they've been conditioned to. </p><p>"But all the same," insisted the Savage, "it is natural to believe in God </p><p>when you're alone-quite alone, in the night, thinking about death ..." </p><p>"But people never are alone now," said Mustapha Mond. "We make </p><p>them hate solitude; and we arrange their lives so that it's almost im- </p><p>possible for them ever to have it." </p><p>The Savage nodded gloomily. At Malpais he had suffered because they </p><p>had shut him out from the communal activities of the pueblo, in civi- </p><p>lized London he was suffering because he could never escape from </p><p>those communal activities, never be quietly alone. </p><p>"Do you remember that bit in King Lear?" said the Savage at last. </p><p>"'The gods are just and of our pleasant vices make instruments to </p><p>plague us; the dark and vicious place where thee he got cost him his </p><p>eyes,' and Edmund answers-you remember, he's wounded, he's dy- </p><p>ing-'Thou hast spoken right; 'tis true. The wheel has come full circle; I </p><p>am here.' What about that now? Doesn't there seem to be a God man- </p><p>aging things, punishing, rewarding?" </p><p>"Well, does there?" questioned the Controller in his turn. "You can in- </p><p>dulge in any number of pleasant vices with a freemartin and run no </p><p>risks of having your eyes put out by your son's mistress. 'The wheel </p><p>has come full circle; I am here.' But where would Edmund be nowa- </p><p>days? Sitting in a pneumatic chair, with his arm round a girl's waist, </p><p>sucking away at his sex-hormone chewing-gum and looking at the </p><p>feelies. The gods are just. No doubt. But their code of law is dictated, </p><p>in the last resort, by the people who organize society; Providence</p><p>takes its cue from men." </p><p>"Are you sure?" asked the Savage. "Are you quite sure that the Ed- </p><p>mund in that pneumatic chair hasn't been just as heavily punished as </p><p>the Edmund who's wounded and bleeding to death? The gods are just. </p><p>Haven't they used his pleasant vices as an instrument to degrade </p><p>him?" </p><p>"Degrade him from what position? As a happy, hard-working, goods- </p><p>consuming citizen he's perfect. Of course, if you choose some other </p><p>standard than ours, then perhaps you might say he was degraded. But </p><p>you've got to stick to one set of postulates. You can't play Electro- </p><p>magnetic Golf according to the rules of Centrifugal Bumble-puppy." </p><p>"But value dwells not in particular will," said the Savage. "It holds his </p><p>estimate and dignity as well wherein 'tis precious of itself as in the </p><p>prizer." </p><p>"Come, come," protested Mustapha Mond, "that's going rather far, isn't </p><p>it?" </p><p>"If you allowed yourselves to think of God, you wouldn't allow your- </p><p>selves to be degraded by pleasant vices. You'd have a reason for bear- </p><p>ing things patiently, for doing things with courage. I've seen it with the </p><p>Indians." </p><p>"I'm sure you have," said Mustapha Mond. "But then we aren't Indians. </p><p>There isn't any need for a civilized man to bear anything that's seri- </p><p>ously unpleasant. And as for doing things-Ford forbid that he should </p><p>get the idea into his head. It would upset the whole social order if men </p><p>started doing things on their own." </p><p>"What about self-denial, then? If you had a God, you'd have a reason </p><p>for self-denial." </p><p>"But industrial civilization is only possible when there's no self-denial. </p><p>Self-indulgence up to the very limits imposed by hygiene and econom- </p><p>ics. Otherwise the wheels stop turning." </p><p>"You'd have a reason for chastity!" said the Savage, blushing a little as </p><p>he spoke the words. </p><p>"But chastity means passion, chastity means neurasthenia. And pas- </p><p>sion and neurasthenia mean instability. And instability means the end </p><p>of civilization. You can't have a lasting civilization without plenty of </p><p>pleasant vices." </p><p>"But God's the reason for everything noble and fine and heroic. If you </p><p>had a God ..." </p><p>"My dear young friend," said Mustapha Mond, "civilization has abso- </p><p>lutely no need of nobility or heroism. These things are symptoms of </p><p>political inefficiency. In a properly organized society like ours, nobody </p><p>has any opportunities for being noble or heroic. Conditions have got to </p><p>be thoroughly unstable before the occasion can arise. Where there are </p><p>wars, where there are divided allegiances, where there are tempta- </p><p>tions to be resisted, objects of love to be fought for or defended-there,</p><p>obviously, nobility and heroism have some sense. But there aren't any </p><p>wars nowadays. The greatest care is taken to prevent you from loving </p><p>any one too much. There's no such thing as a divided allegiance; </p><p>you're so conditioned that you can't help doing what you ought to do. </p><p>And what you ought to do is on the whole so pleasant, so many of the </p><p>natural impulses are allowed free play, that there really aren't any </p><p>temptations to resist. And if ever, by some unlucky chance, anything </p><p>unpleasant should somehow happen, why, there's always soma to give </p><p>you a holiday from the facts. And there's always soma to calm your </p><p>anger, to reconcile you to your enemies, to make you patient and long- </p><p>suffering. In the past you could only accomplish these things by mak- </p><p>ing a great effort and after years of hard moral training. Now, you </p><p>swallow two or three half-gramme tablets, and there you are. Anybody </p><p>can be virtuous now. You can carry at least half your mortality about in </p><p>a bottle. Christianity without tears-that's what soma is." </p><p>"But the tears are necessary. Don't you remember what Othello said? </p><p>'If after every tempest came such calms, may the winds blow till they </p><p>have wakened death.' There's a story one of the old Indians used to </p><p>tell us, about the Girl of Mataski. The young men who wanted to marry </p><p>her had to do a morning's hoeing in her garden. It seemed easy; but </p><p>there were flies and mosquitoes, magic ones. Most of the young men </p><p>simply couldn't stand the biting and stinging. But the one that could- </p><p>he got the girl." </p><p>"Charming! But in civilized countries," said the Controller, "you can </p><p>have girls without hoeing for them, and there aren't any flies or mos- </p><p>quitoes to sting you. We got rid of them all centuries ago." </p><p>The Savage nodded, frowning. "You got rid of them. Yes, that's just </p><p>like you. Getting rid of everything unpleasant instead of learning to put </p><p>up with it. Whether 'tis better in the mind to suffer the slings and ar- </p><p>rows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles </p><p>and by opposing end them ... But you don't do either. Neither suffer </p><p>nor oppose. You just abolish the slings and arrows. It's too easy." </p><p>He was suddenly silent, thinking of his mother. In her room on the </p><p>thirty-seventh floor, Linda had floated in a sea of singing lights and </p><p>perfumed caresses-floated away, out of space, out of time, out of the </p><p>prison of her memories, her habits, her aged and bloated body. And </p><p>Tomakin, ex-Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning, Tomakin was still </p><p>on holiday-on holiday from humiliation and pain, in a world where he </p><p>could not hear those words, that derisive laughter, could not see that </p><p>hideous face, feel those moist and flabby arms round his neck, in a </p><p>beautiful world ... </p><p>"What you need," the Savage went on, "is something with tears for a </p><p>change. Nothing costs enough here." </p><p>("Twelve and a half million dollars," Henry Foster had protested when </p><p>the Savage told him that. "Twelve and a half million-that's what the </p><p>new Conditioning Centre cost. Not a cent less.") </p><p>"Exposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune, death and </p><p>danger dare, even for an eggshell. Isn't there something in that?" he </p><p>asked, looking up at Mustapha Mond. "Quite apart from God-though of</p><p>course God would be a reason for it. Isn't there something in living </p><p>dangerously?" </p><p>"There's a great deal in it," the Controller replied. "Men and women </p><p>must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time." </p><p>"What?" questioned the Savage, uncomprehending. </p><p>"It's one of the conditions of perfect health. That's why we've made </p><p>the V.P.S. treatments compulsory." </p><p>"V.P.S.?" </p><p>"Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the </p><p>whole system with adrenin. It's the complete physiological equivalent </p><p>of fear and rage. All the tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and be- </p><p>ing murdered by Othello, without any of the inconveniences." </p><p>"But I like the inconveniences." </p><p>"We don't," said the Controller. "We prefer to do things comfortably." </p><p>"But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real dan- </p><p>ger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin." </p><p>"In fact," said Mustapha Mond, "you're claiming the right to be un- </p><p>happy." </p><p>"All right then," said the Savage defiantly, "I'm claiming the right to be </p><p>unhappy." </p><p>"Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right </p><p>to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right </p><p>to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may </p><p>happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured </p><p>by unspeakable pains of every kind." There was a long silence. </p><p>"I claim them all," said the Savage at last. </p><p>Mustapha Mond shrugged his shoulders. "You're welcome," he said. </p><p>THE DOOR was ajar; they entered. </p><p>"John!" </p><p>From the bathroom came an unpleasant and characteristic sound. </p><p>"Is there anything the matter?" Helmholtz called. </p><p>There was no answer. The unpleasant sound was repeated, twice; </p><p>there was silence. Then, with a click the bathroom door opened and, </p><p>very pale, the Savage emerged. </p><p>"I say," Helmholtz exclaimed solicitously, "you do look ill, John!" </p><p>"Did you eat something that didn't agree with you?" asked Bernard. </p><p>The Savage nodded. "I ate civilization." </p><p>"What?" </p><p>"It poisoned me; I was defiled. And then," he added, in a lower tone, </p><p>"I ate my own wickedness." </p><p>"Yes, but what exactly? ... I mean, just now you were ..." </p><p>"Now I am purified," said the Savage. "I drank some mustard and </p><p>warm water." </p><p>The others stared at him in astonishment. "Do you mean to say that </p><p>you were doing it on purpose?" asked Bernard. </p><p>"That's how the Indians always purify themselves." He sat down and, </p><p>sighing, passed his hand across his forehead. "I shall rest for a few </p><p>minutes," he said. "I'm rather tired." </p><p>"Well, I'm not surprised," said Helmholtz. After a silence, "We've come </p><p>to say good-bye," he went on in another tone. "We're off to-morrow </p><p>morning." </p><p>"Yes, we're off to-morrow," said Bernard on whose face the Savage </p><p>remarked a new expression of determined resignation. "And by the </p><p>way, John," he continued, leaning forward in his chair and laying a </p><p>hand on the Savage's knee, "I want to say how sorry I am about eve- </p><p>rything that happened yesterday." He blushed. "How ashamed," he </p><p>went on, in spite of the unsteadiness of his voice, "how really ..." </p><p>The Savage cut him short and, taking his hand, affectionately pressed </p><p>it. </p><p>"Helmholtz was wonderful to me," Bernard resumed, after a little </p><p>pause. "If it hadn't been for him, I should ..." </p><p>"Now, now," Helmholtz protested. </p><p>There was a silence. In spite of their sadness-because of it, even; for </p><p>their sadness was the symptom of their love for one another-the three </p><p>young men were happy. </p><p>"I went to see the Controller this morning," said the Savage at last. </p><p>"What for?" </p><p>"To ask if I mightn't go to the islands with you." </p><p>"And what did he say?" asked Helmholtz eagerly. </p><p>The Savage shook his head. "He wouldn't let me." </p><p>"Why not?" </p><p>"He said he wanted to go on with the experiment. But I'm damned,"</p><p>the Savage added, with sudden fury, "I'm damned if I'll go on being </p><p>experimented with. Not for all the Controllers in the world. I shall go </p><p>away to-morrow too." </p><p>"But where?" the others asked in unison. </p><p>The Savage shrugged his shoulders. "Anywhere. I don't care. So long </p><p>as I can be alone." </p><p>From Guildford the down-line followed the Wey valley to Godaiming, </p><p>then, over Milford and Witley, proceeded to Haslemere and on through </p><p>Petersfield towards Portsmouth. Roughly parallel to it, the upline </p><p>passed over Worplesden, Tongham, Puttenham, Elstead and Grayshott. </p><p>Between the Hog's Back and Hindhead there were points where the </p><p>two lines were not more than six or seven kilometres apart. The dis- </p><p>tance was too small for careless flyers-particularly at night and when </p><p>they had taken half a gramme too much. There had been accidents. </p><p>Serious ones. It had been decided to deflect the upline a few kilome- </p><p>tres to the west. Between Grayshott and Tongham four abandoned air- </p><p>lighthouses marked the course of the old Portsmouth-to-London road. </p><p>The skies above them were silent and deserted. It was over Selborne, </p><p>Bordon and Farnham that the helicopters now ceaselessly hummed </p><p>and roared. </p><p>The Savage had chosen as his hermitage the old light-house which </p><p>stood on the crest of the hill between Puttenham and Elstead. The </p><p>building was of ferro-concrete and in excellent condition-almost too </p><p>comfortable the Savage had thought when he first explored the place, </p><p>almost too civilizedly luxurious. He pacified his conscience by promis- </p><p>ing himself a compensatingly harder self-discipline, purifications the </p><p>more complete and thorough. His first night in the hermitage was, de- </p><p>liberately, a sleepless one. He spent the hours on his knees praying, </p><p>now to that Heaven from which the guilty Claudius had begged for- </p><p>giveness, now in Zuni to Awonawilona, now to Jesus and Pookong, now </p><p>to his own guardian animal, the eagle. From time to time he stretched </p><p>out his arms as though he were on the Cross, and held them thus </p><p>through long minutes of an ache that gradually increased till it became </p><p>a tremulous and excruciating agony; held them, in voluntary crucifix- </p><p>ion, while he repeated, through clenched teeth (the sweat, meanwhile, </p><p>pouring down his face), "Oh, forgive me! Oh, make me pure! Oh, help </p><p>me to be good!" again and again, till he was on the point of fainting </p><p>from the pain. </p><p>When morning came, he felt he had earned the right to inhabit the </p><p>lighthouse; yet, even though there still was glass in most of the win- </p><p>dows, even though the view from the platform was so fine. For the </p><p>very reason why he had chosen the lighthouse had become almost in- </p><p>stantly a reason for going somewhere else. He had decided to live </p><p>there because the view was so beautiful, because, from his vantage </p><p>point, he seemed to be looking out on to the incarnation of a divine </p><p>being. But who was he to be pampered with the daily and hourly sight </p><p>of loveliness? Who was he to be living in the visible presence of God? </p><p>All he deserved to live in was some filthy sty, some blind hole in the </p><p>ground. Stiff and still aching after his long night of pain, but for that </p><p>very reason inwardly reassured, he climbed up to the platform of his </p><p>tower, he looked out over the bright sunrise world which he had re-</p><p>gained the right to inhabit. On the north the view was bounded by the </p><p>long chalk ridge of the Hog's Back, from behind whose eastern extrem- </p><p>ity rose the towers of the seven skyscrapers which constituted Guild- </p><p>ford. Seeing them, the Savage made a grimace; but he was to become </p><p>reconciled to them in course of time; for at night they twinkled gaily </p><p>with geometrical constellations, or else, flood-lighted, pointed their </p><p>luminous fingers (with a gesture whose significance nobody in England </p><p>but the Savage now understood) solemnly towards the plumbless mys- </p><p>teries of heaven. </p><p>In the valley which separated the Hog's Back from the sandy hill on </p><p>which the lighthouse stood, Puttenham was a modest little village nine </p><p>stories high, with silos, a poultry farm, and a small vitamin-D factory. </p><p>On the other side of the lighthouse, towards the South, the ground fell </p><p>away in long slopes of heather to a chain of ponds. </p><p>Beyond them, above the intervening woods, rose the fourteen-story </p><p>tower of Elstead. Dim in the hazy English air, Hindhead and Selborne </p><p>invited the eye into a blue romantic distance. But it was not alone the </p><p>distance that had attracted the Savage to his lighthouse; the near was </p><p>as seductive as the far. The woods, the open stretches of heather and </p><p>yellow gorse, the clumps of Scotch firs, the shining ponds with their </p><p>overhanging birch trees, their water lilies, their beds of rushes-these </p><p>were beautiful and, to an eye accustomed to the aridities of the Ameri- </p><p>can desert, astonishing. And then the solitude! Whole days passed </p><p>during which he never saw a human being. The lighthouse was only a </p><p>quarter of an hour's flight from the Charing-T Tower; but the hills of </p><p>Malpais were hardly more deserted than this Surrey heath. The crowds </p><p>that daily left London, left it only to play Electro-magnetic Golf or Ten- </p><p>nis. Puttenham possessed no links; the nearest Riemann-surfaces </p><p>were at Guildford. Flowers and a landscape were the only attractions </p><p>here. And so, as there was no good reason for coming, nobody came. </p><p>During the first days the Savage lived alone and undisturbed. </p><p>Of the money which, on his first arrival, John had received for his per- </p><p>sonal expenses, most had been spent on his equipment. Before leaving </p><p>London he had bought four viscose-woollen blankets, rope and string, </p><p>nails, glue, a few tools, matches (though he intended in due course to </p><p>make a fire drill), some pots and pans, two dozen packets of seeds, </p><p>and ten kilogrammes of wheat flour. "No, not synthetic starch and </p><p>cotton-waste flour-substitute," he had insisted. "Even though it is </p><p>more nourishing." But when it came to pan-glandular biscuits and vi- </p><p>taminized beef-surrogate, he had not been able to resist the shop- </p><p>man's persuasion. Looking at the tins now, he bitterly reproached him- </p><p>self for his weakness. Loathesome civilized stuff! He had made up his </p><p>mind that he would never eat it, even if he were starving. "That'll </p><p>teach them," he thought vindictively. It would also teach him. </p><p>He counted his money. The little that remained would be enough, he </p><p>hoped, to tide him over the winter. By next spring, his garden would </p><p>be producing enough to make him independent of the outside world. </p><p>Meanwhile, there would always be game. He had seen plenty of rab- </p><p>bits, and there were waterfowl on the ponds. He set to work at once to </p><p>make a bow and arrows. </p><p>There were ash trees near the lighthouse and, for arrow shafts, a</p><p>whole copse full of beautifully straight hazel saplings. He began by fell- </p><p>ing a young ash, cut out six feet of unbranched stem, stripped off the </p><p>bark and, paring by paring, shaved away the white wood, as old Mit- </p><p>sima had taught him, until he had a stave of his own height, stiff at </p><p>the thickened centre, lively and quick at the slender tips. The work </p><p>gave him an intense pleasure. After those weeks of idleness in London, </p><p>with nothing to do, whenever he wanted anything, but to press a </p><p>switch or turn a handle, it was pure delight to be doing something that </p><p>demanded skill and patience. </p><p>He had almost finished whittling the stave into shape, when he real- </p><p>ized with a start that he was singing -singing! It was as though, stum- </p><p>bling upon himself from the outside, he had suddenly caught himself </p><p>out, taken himself flagrantly at fault. Guiltily he blushed. After all, it </p><p>was not to sing and enjoy himself that he had come here. It was to es- </p><p>cape further contamination by the filth of civilized life; it was to be pu- </p><p>rified and made good; it was actively to make amends. He realized to </p><p>his dismay that, absorbed in the whittling of his bow, he had forgotten </p><p>what he had sworn to himself he would constantly remember-poor </p><p>Linda, and his own murderous unkindness to her, and those loathsome </p><p>twins, swarming like lice across the mystery of her death, insulting, </p><p>with their presence, not merely his own grief and repentance, but the </p><p>very gods themselves. He had sworn to remember, he had sworn un- </p><p>ceasingly to make amends. And there was he, sitting happily over his </p><p>bow-stave, singing, actually singing. ... </p><p>He went indoors, opened the box of mustard, and put some water to </p><p>boil on the fire. </p><p>Half an hour later, three Delta-Minus landworkers from one of the Put- </p><p>tenham Bokanovsky Groups happened to be driving to Elstead and, at </p><p>the top of the hill, were astonished to see a young man standing Out- </p><p>side the abandoned lighthouse stripped to the waist and hitting himself </p><p>with a whip of knotted cords. His back was horizontally streaked with </p><p>crimson, and from weal to weal ran thin trickles of blood. The driver of </p><p>the lorry pulled up at the side of the road and, with his two compan- </p><p>ions, stared open-mouthed at the extraordinary spectacle. One, two </p><p>three-they counted the strokes. After the eighth, the young man inter- </p><p>rupted his self-punishment to run to the wood's edge and there be vio- </p><p>lently sick. When he had finished, he picked up the whip and began </p><p>hitting himself again. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve ... </p><p>"Ford!" whispered the driver. And his twins were of the same opinion. </p><p>"Fordey!" they said. </p><p>Three days later, like turkey buzzards settling on a corpse, the report- </p><p>ers came. </p><p>Dried and hardened over a slow fire of green wood, the bow was </p><p>ready. The Savage was busy on his arrows. Thirty hazel sticks had </p><p>been whittled and dried, tipped with sharp nails, carefully nocked. He </p><p>had made a raid one night on the Puttenham poultry farm, and now</p><p>had feathers enough to equip a whole armoury. It was at work upon </p><p>the feathering of his shafts that the first of the reporters found him. </p><p>Noiseless on his pneumatic shoes, the man came up behind him. </p><p>"Good-morning, Mr. Savage," he said. "I am the representative of The </p><p>Hourly Radio." </p><p>Startled as though by the bite of a snake, the Savage sprang to his </p><p>feet, scattering arrows, feathers, glue-pot and brush in all directions. </p><p>"I beg your pardon," said the reporter, with genuine compunction. "I </p><p>had no intention ..." He touched his hat-the aluminum stove-pipe hat </p><p>in which he carried his wireless receiver and transmitter. "Excuse my </p><p>not taking it off," he said. "It's a bit heavy. Well, as I was saying, I am </p><p>the representative of The Hourly ..." </p><p>"What do you want?" asked the Savage, scowling. The reporter re- </p><p>turned his most ingratiating smile. </p><p>"Well, of course, our readers would be profoundly interested ..." He put </p><p>his head on one side, his smile became almost coquettish. "Just a few </p><p>words from you, Mr. Savage." And rapidly, with a series of ritual ges- </p><p>tures, he uncoiled two wires connected to the portable battery buckled </p><p>round his waist; plugged them simultaneously into the sides of his </p><p>aluminum hat; touched a spring on the crown-and antennae shot up </p><p>into the air; touched another spring on the peak of the brim-and, like </p><p>a jack-in-the-box, out jumped a microphone and hung there, quiver- </p><p>ing, six inches in front of his nose; pulled down a pair of receivers over </p><p>his ears; pressed a switch on the left side of the hat-and from within </p><p>came a faint waspy buzzing; turned a knob on the right-and the buzz- </p><p>ing was interrupted by a stethoscopic wheeze and cackle, by hiccoughs </p><p>and sudden squeaks. "Hullo," he said to the microphone, "hullo, hullo </p><p>..." A bell suddenly rang inside his hat. "Is that you, Edzel? Primo Mel- </p><p>lon speaking. Yes, I've got hold of him. Mr. Savage will now take the </p><p>microphone and say a few words. Won't you, Mr. Savage?" He looked </p><p>up at the Savage with another of those winning smiles of his. "Just tell </p><p>our readers why you came here. What made you leave London (hold </p><p>on, Edzel!) so very suddenly. And, of course, that whip." (The Savage </p><p>started. How did they know about the whip?) "We're all crazy to know </p><p>about the whip. And then something about Civilization. You know the </p><p>sort of stuff. 'What I think of the Civilized Girl.' Just a few words, a </p><p>very few ..." </p><p>The Savage obeyed with a disconcerting literalness. Five words he ut- </p><p>tered and no more-five words, the same as those he had said to Ber- </p><p>nard about the Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury. "Hani! Sons </p><p>eso tse-na!" And seizing the reporter by the shoulder, he spun him </p><p>round (the young man revealed himself invitingly well-covered), aimed </p><p>and, with all the force and accuracy of a champion foot-and-mouth- </p><p>baller, delivered a most prodigious kick. </p><p>Eight minutes later, a new edition of The Hourly Radio was on sale in </p><p>the streets of London. "HOURLY RADIO REPORTER HAS COCCYX </p><p>KICKED BY MYSTERY SAVAGE," ran the headlines on the front page. </p><p>"SENSATION IN SURREY." </p><p>"Sensation even in London," thought the reporter when, on his return, </p><p>he read the words. And a very painful sensation, what was more. He </p><p>sat down gingerly to his luncheon. </p><p>Undeterred by that cautionary bruise on their colleague's coccyx, four </p><p>other reporters, representing the New York Times , the Frankfurt Four- </p><p>Dimensional Continuum , The Fordian Science Monitor, and The Delta </p><p>Mirror, called that afternoon at the lighthouse and met with receptions </p><p>of progressively increasing violence. </p><p>From a safe distance and still rubbing his buttocks, "Benighted fool!" </p><p>shouted the man from The Fordian Science Monitor, "why don't you </p><p>take soma?" </p><p>"Get away!" The Savage shook his fist. </p><p>The other retreated a few steps then turned round again. "Evil's an un- </p><p>reality if you take a couple of grammes." </p><p>"Kohakwa iyathtokyai!” The tone was menacingly derisive. </p><p>"Pain's a delusion." </p><p>"Oh, is it?" said the Savage and, picking up a thick hazel switch, strode </p><p>forward. </p><p>The man from The Fordian Science Monitor made a dash for his heli- </p><p>copter. </p><p>After that the Savage was left for a time in peace. A few helicopters </p><p>came and hovered inquisitively round the tower. He shot an arrow into </p><p>the importunately nearest of them. It pierced the aluminum floor of </p><p>the cabin; there was a shrill yell, and the machine went rocketing up </p><p>into the air with all the acceleration that its super-charger could give </p><p>it. The others, in future, kept their distance respectfully. Ignoring their </p><p>tiresome humming (he likened himself in his imagination to one of the </p><p>suitors of the Maiden of Matsaki, unmoved and persistent among the </p><p>winged vermin), the Savage dug at what was to be his garden. After a </p><p>time the vermin evidently became bored and flew away; for hours at a </p><p>stretch the sky above his head was empty and, but for the larks, si- </p><p>lent. </p><p>The weather was breathlessly hot, there was thunder in the air. He had </p><p>dug all the morning and was resting, stretched out along the floor. And </p><p>suddenly the thought of Lenina was a real presence, naked and tangi- </p><p>ble, saying "Sweet!" and "Put your arms round me!"-in shoes and </p><p>socks, perfumed. Impudent strumpet! But oh, oh, her arms round his </p><p>neck, the lifting of her breasts, her mouth! Eternity was in our lips and </p><p>eyes. Lenina ... No, no, no, no! He sprang to his feet and, half naked as </p><p>he was, ran out of the house. At the edge of the heath stood a clump </p><p>of hoary juniper bushes. He flung himself against them, he embraced, </p><p>not the smooth body of his desires, but an armful of green spikes. </p><p>Sharp, with a thousand points, they pricked him. He tried to think of </p><p>poor Linda, breathless and dumb, with her clutching hands and the </p><p>unutterable terror in her eyes. Poor Linda whom he had sworn to re- </p><p>member. But it was still the presence of Lenina that haunted him. Len-</p><p>ina whom he had promised to forget. Even through the stab and sting </p><p>of the juniper needles, his wincing flesh was aware of her, unescapably </p><p>real. "Sweet, sweet ... And if you wanted me too, why didn't you ..." </p><p>The whip was hanging on a nail by the door, ready to hand against the </p><p>arrival of reporters. In a frenzy the Savage ran back to the house, </p><p>seized it, whirled it. The knotted cords bit into his flesh. </p><p>"Strumpet! Strumpet!" he shouted at every blow as though it were </p><p>Lenina (and how frantically, without knowing it, he wished it were), </p><p>white, warm, scented, infamous Lenina that he was dogging thus. </p><p>"Strumpet!" And then, in a voice of despair, "Oh, Linda, forgive me. </p><p>Forgive me, God. I'm bad. I'm wicked. I'm ... No, no, you strumpet, </p><p>you strumpet!" </p><p>From his carefully constructed hide in the wood three hundred metres </p><p>away, Darwin Bonaparte, the Feely Corporation's most expert big </p><p>game photographer had watched the whole proceedings. Patience and </p><p>skill had been rewarded. He had spent three days sitting inside the </p><p>bole of an artificial oak tree, three nights crawling on his belly through </p><p>the heather, hiding microphones in gorse bushes, burying wires in the </p><p>soft grey sand. Seventy-two hours of profound discomfort. But now me </p><p>great moment had come-the greatest, Darwin Bonaparte had time to </p><p>reflect, as he moved among his instruments, the greatest since his </p><p>taking of the famous all-howling stereoscopic feely of the gorillas' </p><p>wedding. "Splendid," he said to himself, as the Savage started his as- </p><p>tonishing performance. "Splendid!" He kept his telescopic cameras </p><p>carefully aimed-glued to their moving objective; clapped on a higher </p><p>power to get a close-up of the frantic and distorted face (admirable!); </p><p>switched over, for half a minute, to slow motion (an exquisitely comical </p><p>effect, he promised himself); listened in, meanwhile, to the blows, the </p><p>groans, the wild and raving words that were being recorded on the </p><p>sound-track at the edge of his film, tried the effect of a little amplifica- </p><p>tion (yes, that was decidedly better); was delighted to hear, in a mo- </p><p>mentary lull, the shrill singing of a lark; wished the Savage would turn </p><p>round so that he could get a good close-up of the blood on his back- </p><p>and almost instantly (what astonishing luck!) the accommodating fel- </p><p>low did turn round, and he was able to take a perfect close-up. </p><p>"Well, that was grand!" he said to himself when it was all over. "Really </p><p>grand!" He mopped his face. When they had put in the feely effects at </p><p>the studio, it would be a wonderful film. Almost as good, thought Dar- </p><p>win Bonaparte, as the Sperm Whale's Love-Life - and that, by Ford, was </p><p>saying a good deal! </p><p>Twelve days later The Savage of Surrey had been released and could </p><p>be seen, heard and felt in every first-class feely-palace in Western </p><p>Europe. </p><p>The effect of Darwin Bonaparte's film was immediate and enormous. </p><p>On the afternoon which followed the evening of its release John's rustic </p><p>solitude was suddenly broken by the arrival overhead of a great swarm </p><p>of helicopters. </p><p>He was digging in his garden-digging, too, in his own mind, laboriously </p><p>turning up the substance of his thought. Death-and he drove in his </p><p>spade once, and again, and yet again. And all our yesterdays have </p><p>lighted fools the way to dusty death. A convincing thunder rumbled </p><p>through the words. He lifted another spadeful of earth. Why had Linda </p><p>died? Why had she been allowed to become gradually less than human </p><p>and at last ... He shuddered. A good kissing carrion. He planted his foot </p><p>on his spade and stamped it fiercely into the tough ground. As flies to </p><p>wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport. Thunder </p><p>again; words that proclaimed themselves true-truer somehow than </p><p>truth itself. And yet that same Gloucester had called them ever-gentle </p><p>gods. Besides, thy best of rest is sleep and that thou oft provok'st; yet </p><p>grossly fear'st thy death which is no more. No more than sleep. Sleep. </p><p>Perchance to dream. His spade struck against a stone; he stooped to </p><p>pick it up. For in that sleep of death, what dreams? ... </p><p>A humming overhead had become a roar; and suddenly he was in </p><p>shadow, there was something between the sun and him. He looked up, </p><p>startled, from his digging, from his thoughts; looked up in a dazzled </p><p>bewilderment, his mind still wandering in that other world of truer- </p><p>than-truth, still focused on the immensities of death and deity; looked </p><p>up and saw, close above him, the swarm of hovering machines. Like </p><p>locusts they came, hung poised, descended all around him on the </p><p>heather. And from out of the bellies of these giant grasshoppers </p><p>stepped men in white viscose-flannels, women (for the weather was </p><p>hot) in acetate-shantung pyjamas or velveteen shorts and sleeveless, </p><p>half-unzippered singlets-one couple from each. In a few minutes there </p><p>were dozens of them, standing in a wide circle round the lighthouse, </p><p>staring, laughing, clicking their cameras, throwing (as to an ape) pea- </p><p>nuts, packets of sex-hormone chewing-gum, pan-glandular petite </p><p>beurres. And every moment-for across the Hog's Back the stream of </p><p>traffic now flowed unceasingly-their numbers increased. As in a </p><p>nightmare, the dozens became scores, the scores hundreds. </p><p>The Savage had retreated towards cover, and now, in the posture of an </p><p>animal at bay, stood with his back to the wall of the lighthouse, staring </p><p>from face to face in speechless horror, like a man out of his senses. </p><p>From this stupor he was aroused to a more immediate sense of reality </p><p>by the impact on his cheek of a well-aimed packet of chewing-gum. A </p><p>shock of startling pain-and he was broad awake, awake and fiercely </p><p>angry. </p><p>"Go away!" he shouted. </p><p>The ape had spoken; there was a burst of laughter and hand-clapping. </p><p>"Good old Savage! Hurrah, hurrah!" And through the babel he heard </p><p>cries of: "Whip, whip, the whip!" </p><p>Acting on the word's suggestion, he seized the bunch of knotted cords </p><p>from its nail behind the door and shook it at his tormentors. </p><p>There was a yell of ironical applause. </p><p>Menacingly he advanced towards them. A woman cried out in fear. The </p><p>line wavered at its most immediately threatened point, then stiffened </p><p>again, stood firm. The consciousness of being in overwhelming force</p><p>had given these sightseers a courage which the Savage had not ex- </p><p>pected of them. Taken aback, he halted and looked round. </p><p>"Why don't you leave me alone?" There was an almost plaintive note in </p><p>his anger. </p><p>"Have a few magnesium-salted almonds!" said the man who, if the </p><p>Savage were to advance, would be the first to be attacked. He held out </p><p>a packet. "They're really very good, you know," he added, with a </p><p>rather nervous smile of propitiation. "And the magnesium salts will </p><p>help to keep you young." </p><p>The Savage ignored his offer. "What do you want with me?" he asked, </p><p>turning from one grinning face to another. "What do you want with </p><p>me?" </p><p>"The whip," answered a hundred voices confusedly. "Do the whipping </p><p>stunt. Let's see the whipping stunt." </p><p>Then, in unison and on a slow, heavy rhythm, "We-want-the whip," </p><p>shouted a group at the end of the line. "We-want-the whip." </p><p>Others at once took up the cry, and the phrase was repeated, parrot- </p><p>fashion, again and again, with an ever-growing volume of sound, until, </p><p>by the seventh or eighth reiteration, no other word was being spoken. </p><p>"We-want-the whip." </p><p>They were all crying together; and, intoxicated by the noise, the una- </p><p>nimity, the sense of rhythmical atonement, they might, it seemed, </p><p>have gone on for hours-almost indefinitely. But at about the twenty- </p><p>fifth repetition the proceedings were startlingly interrupted. Yet an- </p><p>other helicopter had arrived from across the Hog's Back, hung poised </p><p>above the crowd, then dropped within a few yards of where the Sav- </p><p>age was standing, in the open space between the line of sightseers </p><p>and the lighthouse. The roar of the air screws momentarily drowned </p><p>the shouting; then, as the machine touched the ground and the en- </p><p>gines were turned off: "We-want-the whip; we-want-the whip," broke </p><p>out again in the same loud, insistent monotone. </p><p>The door of the helicopter opened, and out stepped, first a fair and </p><p>ruddy-faced young man, then, in green velveteen shorts, white shirt, </p><p>and jockey cap, a young woman. </p><p>At the sight of the young woman, the Savage started, recoiled, turned </p><p>pale. </p><p>The young woman stood, smiling at him-an uncertain, imploring, al- </p><p>most abject smile. The seconds passed. Her lips moved, she was say- </p><p>ing something; but the sound of her voice was covered by the loud re- </p><p>iterated refrain of the sightseers. </p><p>"We-want-the whip! We-want-the whip!" </p><p>The young woman pressed both hands to her left side, and on that </p><p>peach-bright, doll-beautiful face of hers appeared a strangely incon- </p><p>gruous expression of yearning distress. Her blue eyes seemed to grow </p><p>larger, brighter; and suddenly two tears rolled down her cheeks. Inau-</p><p>dibly, she spoke again; then, with a quick, impassioned gesture </p><p>stretched out her arms towards the Savage, stepped forward. </p><p>"We-want-the whip! We-want ..." </p><p>And all of a sudden they had what they wanted. </p><p>"Strumpet!" The Savage had rushed at her like a madman. "Fitchew!" </p><p>Like a madman, he was slashing at her with his whip of small cords. </p><p>Terrified, she had turned to flee, had tripped and fallen in the heather. </p><p>"Henry, Henry!" she shouted. But her ruddy-faced companion had </p><p>bolted out of harm's way behind the helicopter. </p><p>With a whoop of delighted excitement the line broke; there was a con- </p><p>vergent stampede towards that magnetic centre of attraction. Pain was </p><p>a fascinating horror. </p><p>"Fry, lechery, fry!" Frenzied, the Savage slashed again. </p><p>Hungrily they gathered round, pushing and scrambling like swine </p><p>about the trough. </p><p>"Oh, the flesh!" The Savage ground his teeth. This time it was on his </p><p>shoulders that the whip descended. "Kill it, kill it!" </p><p>Drawn by the fascination of the horror of pain and, from within, im- </p><p>pelled by that habit of cooperation, that desire for unanimity and </p><p>atonement, which their conditioning had so ineradicably implanted in </p><p>them, they began to mime the frenzy of his gestures, striking at one </p><p>another as the Savage struck at his own rebellious flesh, or at that </p><p>plump incarnation of turpitude writhing in the heather at his feet. </p><p>"Kill it, kill it, kill it ..." The Savage went on shouting. </p><p>Then suddenly somebody started singing "Orgy-porgy" and, in a mo- </p><p>ment, they had all caught up the refrain and, singing, had begun to </p><p>dance. Orgy-porgy, round and round and round, beating one another </p><p>in six-eight time. Orgy-porgy ... </p><p>It was after midnight when the last of the helicopters took its flight. </p><p>Stupefied by soma, and exhausted by a long-drawn frenzy of sensual- </p><p>ity, the Savage lay sleeping in the heather. The sun was already high </p><p>when he awoke. He lay for a moment, blinking in owlish incomprehen- </p><p>sion at the light; then suddenly remembered-everything. </p><p>"Oh, my God, my God!" He covered his eyes with his hand. </p><p>That evening the swarm of helicopters that came buzzing across the </p><p>Hog's Back was a dark cloud ten kilometres long. The description of </p><p>last night's orgy of atonement had been in all the papers. </p><p>"Savage!" called the first arrivals, as they alighted from their machine.</p><p>"Mr. Savage!" </p><p>There was no answer. </p><p>The door of the lighthouse was ajar. They pushed it open and walked </p><p>into a shuttered twilight. Through an archway on the further side of </p><p>the room they could see the bottom of the staircase that led up to the </p><p>higher floors. Just under the crown of the arch dangled a pair of feet. </p><p>"Mr. Savage!" </p><p>Slowly, very slowly, like two unhurried compass needles, the feet </p><p>turned towards the right; north, north-east, east, south-east, south, </p><p>south-south-west; then paused, and, after a few seconds, turned as </p><p>unhurriedly back towards the left. South-south-west, south, south- </p><p>east, east. ... </p><p></pre> </div><!--/.container--></p><p> </main></p><p> </div><!--/#wrap--></p><p> <!-- Timing ...</p><p> rendered on: www20.us.archive.org</p><p> seconds diff sec message stack(file:line:function)</p><p>=========================================================</p><p> 0.0000 0.0000 petabox start var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:1:require</p><p> |common/ia:55:require_once</p><p> |setup.php:330:log</p><p> 0.0008 0.0008 call get_redis() var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:83:main_wrap</p><p> |download.php:104:main</p><p> |download.php:325:getItem</p><p> |common/Item.inc:77:parseMetadata</p><p> |Item.inc:132:get_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:371:get_json_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:1599:direct</p><p> |Caching/AbstractReactiveCache.inc:281:do_recompute</p><p> |AbstractReactiveCache.inc:392:call_user_func_array</p><p> |./unknown:unknown:{closure}</p><p> |/var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/common/Metadata.inc:1640:_get_json_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:1764:log</p><p> 0.0049 0.0041 redis_read start var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:83:main_wrap</p><p> |download.php:104:main</p><p> |download.php:325:getItem</p><p> |common/Item.inc:77:parseMetadata</p><p> |Item.inc:132:get_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:371:get_json_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:1599:direct</p><p> |Caching/AbstractReactiveCache.inc:281:do_recompute</p><p> |AbstractReactiveCache.inc:392:call_user_func_array</p><p> |./unknown:unknown:{closure}</p><p> |/var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/common/Metadata.inc:1640:_get_json_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:1872:log</p><p> 0.0202 0.0153 redis_read finish var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:83:main_wrap</p><p> |download.php:104:main</p><p> |download.php:325:getItem</p><p> |common/Item.inc:77:parseMetadata</p><p> |Item.inc:132:get_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:371:get_json_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:1599:direct</p><p> |Caching/AbstractReactiveCache.inc:281:do_recompute</p><p> |AbstractReactiveCache.inc:392:call_user_func_array</p><p> |./unknown:unknown:{closure}</p><p> |/var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/common/Metadata.inc:1640:_get_json_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:1874:log</p><p> 0.0276 0.0074 begin session_start var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:83:main_wrap</p><p> |download.php:104:main</p><p> |download.php:543:stream</p><p> |download.php:988:head</p><p> |common/Nav.inc:67:__construct</p><p> |Nav.inc:135:session_start</p><p> |Cookies.inc:61:log</p><p> 0.0277 0.0001 done session_start var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:83:main_wrap</p><p> |download.php:104:main</p><p> |download.php:543:stream</p><p> |download.php:988:head</p><p> |common/Nav.inc:67:__construct</p><p> |Nav.inc:135:session_start</p><p> |Cookies.inc:67:log</p><p> 0.1602 0.1325 bug dump var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:83:main_wrap</p><p> |download.php:104:main</p><p> |download.php:543:stream</p><p> |download.php:1020:footer</p><p> |common/setup.php:130:footer</p><p> |Nav.inc:1392:dump</p><p> |Bug.inc:120:log</p><p> --></p><p> <script type="text/javascript"></p><p>if (window.archive_analytics) {</p><p> var vs = window.archive_analytics.get_data_packets();</p><p> for (var i in vs) {</p><p> vs[i]['cache_bust']=Math.random();</p><p> vs[i]['server_ms']=160;</p><p> vs[i]['server_name']="www20.us.archive.org";</p><p> }</p><p> if ($(".more_search").size()>0) {</p><p> window.archive_analytics.send_scroll_fetch_base_event();</p><p> }</p><p>}</p><p></script></p><p> </div></p><p> </body></p><p></html></p></body></text></TEI>