The concussion knocked all the negro’s conditionimg into a cocked hat. He developed for the Beta blonde an exclusive and maniacal passion. She protested. He persisted. There were struggles, pursuits, an assault on a rival, finally a sensational kidnapping. The Beta blond was ravished away into the sky and kept there, hovering, for three weeks in a wildly anti-social tête-à-tête with the black madman. Finally, after a whole series of adventures and much aerial acrobacy three handsome young Alphas succeeded in rescuing her. The negro was packed off to an Adult Re-conditioning Centre and the film ended happily and decorously, with the Beta blonde becoming the mistress of all her three rescuers. They interrupted themselves for a moment to sing a synthetic quartet, with full super-orchestral accompaniment and gardenias on the scent organ.
Then the bearskin made a final appearance and, amid a blare of saxophones, the last stereoscopic kiss faded into darkness, the last electric titillation died on the lips like a dying moth that quivers, quivers, ever more feebly, ever more faintly, and at last is quiet, quite still. But for Lenina the moth did not completely die. Even after the lights had gone up, while they were shuffling slowly along with the crowd towards the lifts, its ghost still fluttered against her lips, still traced fine shuddering roads of anxiety and pleasure across her skin. Her cheeks were flushed. She caught hold of the Savage’s arm and pressed it, limp, against her side. He looked down at her for a moment, pale, pained, desiring, and ashamed of his desire. He was not worthy, not… Their eyes for a moment met. What treasures hers promised! A queen’s ransom of temperament. Hastily he looked away, disengaged his imprisoned arm. He was obscurely terrified lest she should cease to be something he could feel himself unworthy of.
«I don’t think you ought to see things like that,» he said, making haste to transfer from Lenina herself to the surrounding circumstances the blame for any past or possible future lapse from perfection.
«Things like what, John?»
«Like this horrible film.»
«Horrible?» Lenina was genuinely astonished. «But I thought it was lovely.»
«It was base,» he said indignantly, «it was ignoble.» She shook her head. «I don’t know what you mean.» Why was he so queer? Why did he go out of his way to spoil things?
In the taxicopter he hardly even looked at her. Bound by strong vows that had never been pronounced, obedient to laws that had long since ceased to run, he sat averted and in silence. Sometimes, as though a finger had plucked at some taut, almost breaking string, his whole body would shake with a sudden nervous start. The taxicopter landed on the roof of Lenina’s apartment house. «At last,» she thought exultantly as she stepped out of the cab. At last-even though he had been so queer just now. Standing under a lamp, she peered into her hand mirror. At last. Yes, her nose was a bit shiny. She shook the loose powder from her puff. While he was paying off the taxi-there would just be time. She rubbed at the shininess, thinking: «He’s terribly good-looking. No need for him to be shy like Bernard. And yet… Any other man would have done it long ago. Well, now at last.» That fragment of a face in the little round mirror suddenly smiled at her.
«Good-night,» said a strangled voice behind her. Lenina wheeled round. He was standing in the doorway of the cab, his eyes fixed, staring; had evidently been staring all this time while she was powdering her nose, waiting-but what for? or hesitating, trying to make up his mind, and all the time thinking, thinking-she could not imagine what extraordinary thoughts. «Good-night, Lenina,» he repeated, and made a strange grimacing attempt to smile.
«But, John… I thought you were… I mean, aren’t you?…» He shut the door and bent forward to say something to the driver. The cab shot up into the air.
Looking down through the window in the fioor, the Savage could see Lenina’s upturned face, pale in the bluish light of the lamps. The mouth was open, she was calling. Her foreshortened figure rushed away from him; the diminishing square of the roof seemed to be falling through the darkness.
Five minutes later he was back in his room. From its hiding-place he took out his mouse-nibbled volume, turned with religious care its stained and crumbled pages, and began to read Othello. Othello, he remembered, was like the hero of Three Weeks in a Helicopter-a black man.
Drying her eyes, Lenina walked across the roof to the lift. On her way down to the twenty-seventh floor she pulled out her soma bottle. One gramme, she decided, would not be enough; her’s had been more than a one-gramme affliction. But if she took two grammes, she ran the risk of not waking up in time to-morrow morning. She compromised and, into her cupped left palm, shook out three half-gramme tablets.
Chapter Twelve
BERNARD had to shout through the locked door; the Savage would not open.
«But everybody’s there, waiting for you.»
«Let them wait,» came back the muffled voice through the door.
«But you know quite well, John» (how difficult it is to sound persuasive at the top of one’s voice!) «I asked them on purpose to meet you.»
«You ought to have asked me first whether I wanted to meet them.»
«But you always came before, John.»
«That’s precisely why I don’t want to come again.»
«Just to please me,» Bernard bellowingly wheedled. «Won’t you come to please me?»
«No.»
«Do you seriously mean it?»
«Yes.»
Despairingly, «But what shall I do?» Bernard wailed.
«Go to hell!» bawled the exasperated voice from within.
«But the Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury is there to-night.» Bernard was almost in tears.
«Ai yaa tákwa!» It was only in Zuñi that the Savage could adequately express what he felt about the Arch-Community-Songster. «Háni!» he added as an after-thought; and then (with what derisive ferocity!): «Sons éso tse-ná.» And he spat on the ground, as Popé might have done.
In the end Bernard had to slink back, diminished, to his rooms and inform the impatient assembly that the Savage would not be appearing that evening. The news was received with indignation. The men were furious at having been tricked into behaving politely to this insignificant fellow with the unsavoury reputation and the heretical opinions. The higher their position in the hierarchy, the deeper their resentment.
«To play such a joke on me,» the Arch-Songster kept repeating, «on me! » As for the women, they indignantly felt that they had been had on false pretences-had by a wretched little man who had had alcohol poured into his bottle by mistake-by a creature with a Gamma-Minus physique. It was an outrage, and they said so, more and more loudly. The Head Mistress of Eton was particularly scathing.
Lenina alone said nothing. Pale, her blue eyes clouded with an unwonted melancholy, she sat in a corner, cut off from those who surrounded her by an emotion which they did not share. She had come to the party filled with a strange feeling of anxious exultation. «In a few minutes,» she had said to herself, as she entered the room, «I shall be seeing him, talking to him, telling him» (for she had come with her mind made up) «that I like him-more than anybody I’ve ever known. And then perhaps he’ll say…»
What would he say? The blood had rushed to her cheeks.
«Why was he so strange the other night, after the feelies? So queer. And yet I’m absolutely sure he really does rather like me. I’m sure…» It was at this moment that Bernard had made his announcement; the Savage wasn’t coming to the party.
Lenina suddenly felt all the sensations normally experienced at the beginning of a Violent Passion Surrogate treatment-a sense of dreadful emptiness, a breathless apprehension, a nausea. Her heart seemed to stop beating.
«Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t like me,» she said to herself. And at once this possibility became an established certainty: John had refused to come because he didn’t like her. He didn’t like her…
«It really is a bit too thick,» the Head Mistress of Eton was saying to the Director of Crematoria and Phosphorus Reclamation. «When I think that I actually…»
«Yes,» came the voice of Fanny Crowne, «it’s absolutely true about the alcohol. Some one I know knew some one who was working in the Embryo Store at the time. She said to my friend, and my friend said to me…»
«Too bad, too bad,» said Henry Foster, sympathizing with the Arch-Community-Songster. «It may interest you to know that our ex-Director was on the point of transferring him to Iceland.»
Pierced by every word that was spoken, the tight balloon of Bernard’s happy self-confidence was leaking from a thousand wounds. Pale, distraught, abject and agitated, he moved among his guests, stammering incoherent apologies, assuring them that next time the Savage would certainly be there, begging them to sit down and take a carotene sandwich, a slice of vitamin A pâté, a glass of champagne-surrogate. They duly ate, but ignored him; drank and were either rude to his face or talked to one another about him, loudly and offensively, as though he had not been there.
«And now, my friends,» said the Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury, in that beautiful ringing voice with which he led the proceedings at Ford’s Day Celebrations, «Now, my friends, I think perhaps the time has come…» He rose, put down his glass, brushed from his purple viscose waistcoat the crumbs of a considerable collation, and walked
