But then they have unfair advantages. You should see the way a negro ovary responds to pituitary! It’s quite astonishing, when you’re used to working with European material. Still,» he added, with a laugh (but the light of combat was in his eyes and the lift of his chin was challenging), «still, we mean to beat them if we can. I’m working on a wonderful Delta-Minus ovary at this moment. Only just eighteen months old. Over twelve thousand seven hundred children already, either decanted or in embryo. And still going strong. We’ll beat them yet.»
«That’s the spirit I like!» cried the Director, and clapped Mr. Foster on the shouder.
«Come along with us, and give these boys the benefit of your expert knowledge.» Mr. Foster smiled modestly. «With pleasure.» They went. In the Bottling Room all was harmonious bustle and ordered activity. Flaps of fresh sow’s peritoneum ready cut to the proper size came shooting up in little lifts from the Organ Store in the sub-basement. Whizz and then, click! the lift-hatches hew open; the bottle-liner had only to reach out a hand, take the flap, insert, smooth-down, and before the lined bottle had had time to travel out of reach along the endless band, whizz, click! another flap of peritoneum had shot up from the depths, ready to be slipped into yet another bottle, the next of that slow interminable procession on the band.
Next to the Liners stood the Matriculators. The procession advanced; one by one the eggs were transferred from their test-tubes to the larger containers; deftly the peritoneal lining was slit, the morula dropped into place, the saline solution poured in… and already the bottle had passed, and it was the turn of the labellers. Heredity, date of fertilization, membership of Bokanovsky Group-details were transferred from test-tube to bottle. No longer anonymous, but named, identified, the procession marched slowly on; on through an opening in the wall, slowly on into the Social Predestination Room.
«Eighty-eight cubic metres of card-index,» said Mr. Foster with relish, as they entered.
«Containing all the relevant information,» added the Director.
«Brought up to date every morning.»
«And co-ordinated every afternoon.»
«On the basis of which they make their calculations.»
«So many individuals, of such and such quality,» said Mr. Foster.
«Distributed in such and such quantities.»
«The optimum Decanting Rate at any given moment.»
«Unforeseen wastages promptly made good.»
«Promptly,» repeated Mr. Foster. «If you knew the amount of overtime I had to put in after the last Japanese earthquake!» He laughed goodhumouredly and shook his head.
«The Predestinators send in their figures to the Fertilizers.»
«Who give them the embryos they ask for.»
«And the bottles come in here to be predestined in detail.»
«After which they are sent down to the Embryo Store.»
«Where we now proceed ourselves.»
And opening a door Mr. Foster led the way down a staircase into the basement. The temperature was still tropical. They descended into a thickening twilight. Two doors and a passage with a double turn insured the cellar against any possible infiltration of the day.
«Embryos are like photograph film,» said Mr. Foster waggishly, as he pushed open the second door. «They can only stand red light.» And in effect the sultry darkness into which the students now followed him was visible and crimson, like the darkness of closed eyes on a summer’s afternoon. The bulging flanks of row on receding row and tier above tier of bottles glinted with innumerable rubies, and among the rubies moved the dim red spectres of men and women with purple eyes and all the symptoms of lupus. The hum and rattle of machinery faintly stirred the air.
«Give them a few figures, Mr. Foster,» said the Director, who was tired of talking. Mr. Foster was only too happy to give them a few figures. Two hundred and twenty metres long, two hundred wide, ten high. He pointed upwards. Like chickens drinking, the students lifted their eyes towards the distant ceiling.
Three tiers of racks: ground floor level, first gallery, second gallery. The spidery steel-work of gallery above gallery faded away in all directions into the dark. Near them three red ghosts were busily unloading demijohns from a moving staircase.
The escalator from the Social Predestination Room.
Each bottle could be placed on one of fifteen racks, each rack, though you couldn’t see it, was a conveyor traveling at the rate of thirty-three and a third centimetres an hour. Two hundred and sixty-seven days at eight metres a day. Two thousand one hundred and thirty-six metres in all. One circuit of the cellar at ground level, one on the first gallery, half on the second, and on the two hundred and sixty-seventh morning, daylight in the Decanting Room. Independent existence-so called.
«But in the interval,» Mr. Foster concluded, «we’ve managed to do a lot to them. Oh, a very great deal.» His laugh was knowing and triumphant.
«That’s the spirit I like,» said the Director once more. «Let’s walk around. You tell them everything, Mr. Foster.»
Mr. Foster duly told them.
Told them of the growing embryo on its bed of peritoneum. Made them taste the rich blood surrogate on which it fed. Explained why it had to be stimulated with placentin and thyroxin. Told them of the corpus luteum extract. Showed them the jets through which at every twelfth metre from zero to 2040 it was automatically injected. Spoke of those gradually increasing doses of pituitary administered during the final ninety-six metres of their course. Described the artificial maternal circulation installed in every bottle at Metre 112; showed them the resevoir of blood-surrogate, the centrifugal pump that kept the liquid moving over the placenta and drove it through the synthetic lung and waste product filter. Referred to the embryo’s troublesome tendency to anaemia, to the massive doses of hog’s stomach extract and foetal foal’s liver with which, in consequence, it had to be supplied. Showed them the simple mechanism by means of which, during the last two metres out of every eight, all the embryos were simultaneously shaken into familiarity with movement. Hinted at the gravity of the so-called «trauma of decanting,» and enumerated the precautions taken to minimize, by a suitable training of the bottled embryo, that dangerous shock. Told them of the test for sex carried out in the neighborhood of Metre 200. Explained the system of labelling-a T for the males, a circle for the females and for those who were destined to become freemartins a question mark, black on a white ground.
«For of course,» said Mr. Foster, «in the vast majority of cases, fertility is merely a nuisance. One fertile ovary in twelve hundred-that would really be quite sufficient for our purposes. But we want to have a good choice. And of course one must always have an enormous margin of safety. So we allow as many as thirty per cent of the female embryos to develop normally. The others get a dose of male sex-hormone every twenty-four metres for the rest of the course. Result: they’re decanted as freemartins-structurally quite normal (except,» he had to admit, «that they do have the slightest tendency to grow beards), but sterile. Guaranteed sterile. Which brings us at last,» continued Mr. Foster, «out of the realm of mere slavish imitation of nature into the much more interesting world of human invention.» He rubbed his hands. For of course, they didn’t content themselves with merely hatching out embryos: any cow could do that.
«We also predestine and condition. We decant our babies as socialized human beings, as Alphas or Epsilons, as future sewage workers or future…» He was going to say «future World controllers,» but correcting himself, said «future Directors of Hatcheries,» instead.
The D.H.C. acknowledged the compliment with a smile.
They were passing Metre 320 on Rack 11. A young Beta-Minus mechanic was busy with screw-driver and spanner on the blood-surrogate pump of a passing bottle. The hum of the electric motor deepened by fractions of a tone as he turned the nuts. Down, down… A final twist, a glance at the revolution counter, and he was done. He moved two paces down the line and began the same process on the next pump.
«Reducing the number of revolutions per minute,» Mr. Foster explained. «The surrogate goes round slower; therefore passes through the lung at longer intervals; therefore gives the embryo less oxygen. Nothing like oxygen-shortage for keeping an embryo below par.» Again he rubbed his hands.
«But why do you want to keep the embryo below par?» asked an ingenuous student.
«Ass!» said the Director, breaking a long silence. «Hasn’t it occurred to you that an Epsilon embryo must have an Epsilon environment as well as an Epsilon heredity?» It evidently hadn’t occurred to him. He was covered with confusion.
«The lower the caste,» said Mr. Foster, «the shorter the oxygen.» The first organ affected was the brain. After that the skeleton. At seventy per cent of normal oxygen you got dwarfs. At less than seventy eyeless monsters.
«Who are no use at all,» concluded Mr. Foster. Whereas (his voice became confidential and eager), if they could discover a technique for shortening the period of maturation what a triumph, what a benefaction to Society!
«Consider the horse.»
They considered it.
Mature at six; the elephant at ten. While at thirteen a man is not yet sexually mature; and is only full-grown at twenty. Hence, of course, that fruit of delayed development, the human intelligence.
«But in Epsilons,» said Mr. Foster very justly, «we don’t need human intelligence.» Didn’t need and didn’t get it. But though the Epsilon mind was mature at ten, the Epsilon body was not fit to work till eighteen. Long years of superfluous and wasted immaturity. If the physical development could be speeded up till it
