nod. “In every way?”
“Perfect,” he said aloud. And inwardly. “She thinks of herself that way. She doesn’t mind being meat.”
“All the same,” he went on, after a little pause, “I still rather wish it had all ended differently. I didn’t want it to end with our going to bed. Not at once, not the first day.”
“But then what …?”
He began to talk a lot of incomprehensible and dangerous nonsense. Lenina did her best to stop the ears of her mind; but every now and then a phrase would insist on becoming audible.
“I want to know what passion is,” she heard him saying. “I want to feel something strongly.”
“When the individual feels, the community reels,” Lenina pronounced.
“Well, why shouldn’t it reel a bit?”
“Bernard!”
“Adults intellectually and during working hours,” he went on. “Infants where feeling and desire are concerned. It might be possible to be an adult all the time.”
“I don’t understand.” Lenina’s tone was firm.
“I know you don’t. And that’s why we went to bed together yesterday—like infants—instead of being adults and waiting.”
“But it was fun,” Lenina insisted. “Wasn’t it?”
“Oh, the greatest fun,” he answered, but in a voice so mournful, that Lenina felt all her triumph suddenly evaporate.
“I told you so,” was all that Fanny said. “It’s the alcohol they put in his surrogate.”
“All the same[25],” Lenina insisted. “I do like him. But I wish he weren’t so odd.”
2
Stopping for a moment outside the door of the Director’s room, Bernard drew a deep breath. He knocked and entered.
“A permit for you to sign, Director,” he said as airily as possible, and laid the paper on the writing-table.
The Director glanced at him sourly. But the stamp of the World Controller’s Office was at the head of the paper and the signature of Mustapha Mond, bold and black, across the bottom. Everything was perfectly in order. The director had no choice. He signed and was about to return the paper without a word of comment, when his eye was caught by something written in the permit.
“For the New Mexican Reservation?” he said, and his face expressed a kind of agitated astonishment.
Surprised by his surprise, Bernard nodded. There was a silence.
The Director leaned back in his chair, frowning. “How long ago was it?” he said, speaking more to himself than to Bernard. “Twenty years, I suppose. Twenty-five. I must have been your age…” He sighed and shook his head.
“I had the same idea as you,” the Director was saying. “Wanted to have a look at the savages. Got a permit for New Mexico and went there for my summer holiday. With the girl I was having at the moment. She was a Beta-Minus, and I think” (he shut his eyes), “I think she had yellow hair. Well, we went there, and we looked at the savages, and we rode about on horses and all that. And then—it was almost the last day of my leave … well, she got lost. She must have gone for a walk, alone. At any rate, when I woke up, she wasn’t there. And the most frightful thunderstorm I’ve ever seen was just bursting on us. I searched and I shouted and I searched. But there was no sign of her. The next day there was a search. But we couldn’t find anything. She must have fallen into a gully somewhere; or been eaten by a mountain lion. Ford knows. Anyhow it was horrible. It upset me very much at the time, more than it ought to have done, I dare say. Because, after all, it’s the sort of accident that might have happened to anyone. I actually dream about it sometimes,” the Director went on in a low voice. “Dream of being woken up by thunder and finding her gone; dream of searching and searching for her under the trees.” He fell silent.
“You must have had a terrible shock,” said Bernard, almost enviously.
At the sound of his voice the Director started into a guilty realization of where he was; shot a glance at Bernard, and averting his eyes, blushed darkly. Then he looked at him again with sudden suspicion and anger. “Don’t imagine,” he said, “that I’d had any relation with the girl. Nothing emotional, nothing long-drawn. It was all perfectly healthy and normal.” He handed Bernard the permit. “I really don’t know why I bored you with this story.” Furious with himself for having given away a discreditable secret, he vented his rage on Bernard. “And I should like to take this opportunity, Mr. Marx,” he went on, “to say that I’m not at all pleased with the reports I receive of your behaviour outside working hours. I have the good name of the Centre to think of. My workers must be above suspicion, particularly those of the highest castes. And so, Mr. Marx, I give you fair warning.” The Director’s voice was the expression of the disapproval of Society itself. “If ever I hear again of any lapse from a proper standard of infantile decorum, I shall ask for your transference to a Sub-Centre—preferably to Iceland. Good morning.” And swivelling round in his chair, he picked up his pen and began to write.
“That’ll teach him,” he said to himself. But he was mistaken. Bernard left the room elated by the feeling of his individual significance and importance. Even the thought of persecution didn’t bother him. He felt strong enough to face even Iceland. Walking along the corridor, he actually whistled.
3
The journey was quite uneventful. The Blue Pacific Rocket was two and a half minutes early at New Orleans, lost four minutes in a tornado over Texas, but was able to land at Santa Fe less than forty seconds behind schedule time.
“Not so bad,” Lenina conceded.
They slept that night at Santa Fe. The hotel was excellent—incomparably better, for example, than that horrible Aurora Bora Palace in which Lenina had suffered so much the previous summer. Liquid air, television, vibro-vacuum massage, radio, boiling caffeine solution, hot contraceptives, and eight different kinds of scent were laid on in every bedroom. The synthetic music plant was working as they entered the hall and left nothing to be desired. A notice in the lift announced that there were sixty Escalator-Squash-Racket Courts in the hotel, and that Obstacle and Electro-magnetic Golf could both be played in the park.
“But it sounds simply too lovely,” cried Lenina. “I almost wish we could stay here. Sixty Escalator-Squash Courts…”
“There won’t be any in the Reservation,” Bernard warned her. “And no scent, no television, no hot water even. If you feel you can’t stand it, stay here till I come back. You mustn’t come to the Reservation unless you really want to.”
“But I do want to.”
“Very well, then,” said Bernard; and it was almost a threat.
Their permit required the signature of the Warden of the Reservation, at whose office next morning they duly presented themselves. They were admitted almost immediately.
The Warden was a blond Alpha-Minus, short, red, moon-faced, and broad-shouldered, with a loud booming voice. Once started, he went on and on—boomingly.
“… five hundred and sixty thousand
All the same – Все равно
