LENINA felt herself entitled, after this day of
queerness and horror, to a complete and absolute holiday. As soon as they got
back to the rest-house, she swallowed six half-gramme tablets of soma,
lay down on her bed, and within ten minutes had embarked for lunar eternity.
It would be eighteen hours at the least before she was in time again.
Bernard meanwhile lay pensive and wide-eyed in the dark. It was long after
midnight before he fell asleep. Long after midnight; but his insomnia had not
been fruitless; he had a plan.
Punctually, on the following morning, at ten o'clock, the green-uniformed
octoroon stepped out of his helicopter. Bernard was waiting for him among the
agaves.
"Miss Crowne's gone on soma-holiday," he explained. "Can hardly be
back before five. Which leaves us seven hours."
He could fly to Santa Fé, do all the business he had to do, and be in
Malpais again long before she woke up.
"She'll be quite safe here by herself?"
"Safe as helicopters," the octoroon assured him.
They climbed into the machine and started off at once. At ten thirty-four
they landed on the roof of the Santa Fé Post Office; at ten thirty-seven
Bernard had got through to the World Controller's Office in Whitehall; at ten
thirty-seven he was speaking to his fordship's fourth personal secretary; at
ten forty-four he was repeating his story to the first secretary, and at ten
forty-seven and a half it was the deep, resonant voice of Mustapha Mond
himself that sounded in his ears.
"I ventured to think," stammered Bernard, "that your fordship might find
the matter of sufficient scientific interest …"
"Yes, I do find it of sufficient scientific interest," said the deep
voice. "Bring these two individuals back to London with you."
"Your fordship is aware that I shall need a special permit …"
"The necessary orders," said Mustapha Mond, "are being sent to the Warden
of the Reservation at this moment. You will proceed at once to the Warden's
Office. Good-morning, Mr. Marx."
There was silence. Bernard hung up the receiver and hurried up to the
roof.
"Warden's Office," he said to the Gamma-green octoroon.
At ten fifty-four Bernard was shaking hands with the Warden.
"Delighted, Mr. Marx, delighted." His boom was deferential. "We have just
received special orders …"
"I know," said Bernard, interrupting him. "I was talking to his fordship
on the phone a moment ago." His bored tone implied that he was in the habit of
talking to his fordship every day of the week. He dropped into a chair. "If
you'll kindly take all the necessary steps as soon as possible. As soon as
possible," he emphatically repeated. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.
At eleven three he had all the necessary papers in his pocket.
"So long," he said patronizingly to the Warden, who had accompanied him as
far as the lift gates. "So long."
He walked across to the hotel, had a bath, a vibro-vac massage, and an
electrolytic shave, listened in to the morning's news, looked in for half an
hour on the televisor, ate a leisured luncheon, and at half-past two flew back
with the octoroon to Malpais.
The young man stood outside the rest-house.
"Bernard," he called. "Bernard!" There was no answer.
Noiseless on his deerksin moccasins, he ran up the steps and tried the
door. The door was locked.
They were gone! Gone! It was the most terrible thing that had ever
happened to him. She had asked him to come and see them, and now they were
gone. He sat down on the steps and cried.
Half an hour later it occurred to him to look through the window. The
first thing he saw was a green suit-case, with the initials L.C. painted on
the lid. Joy flared up like fire within him. He picked up a stone. The smashed
glass tinkled on the floor. A moment later he was inside the room. He opened
the green suit-case; and all at once he was breathing Lenina's perfume,
filling his lungs with her essential being. His heart beat wildly; for a
moment he was almost faint. Then, bending over the precious box, he touched,
he lifted into the light, he examined. The zippers on Lenina's spare pair of
viscose velveteen shorts were at first a puzzle, then solved, a delight. Zip,
and then zip; zip, and then zip; he was enchanted. Her green slippers were the
most beautiful things he had ever seen. He unfolded a pair of zippicamiknicks,
blushed, put them hastily away again; but kissed a perfumed acetate
handkerchief and wound a scarf round his neck. Opening a box, he spilt a cloud
of scented powder. His hands were floury with the stuff. He wiped them on his
chest, on his shoulders, on his bare arms. Delicious perfume! He shut his
eyes; he rubbed his cheek against his own powdered arm. Touch of smooth skin
against his face, scent in his nostrils of musky dust–her real presence.
"Lenina," he whispered. "Lenina!"
A noise made him start, made him guiltily turn. He crammed up his
thieveries into the suit-case and shut the lid; then listened again, looked.
Not a sign of life, not a sound. And yet he had certainly heard
something–something like a sigh, something like the creak of a board. He
tiptoed to the door and, cautiously opening it, found himself looking on to a
broad landing. On the opposite side of the landing was another door, ajar. He
stepped out, pushed, peeped.
There, on a low bed, the sheet flung back, dressed in a pair of pink
one-piece zippyjamas, lay Lenina, fast asleep and so beautiful in the midst of
her curls, so touchingly childish with her pink toes and her grave sleeping
face, so trustful in the helplessness of her limp hands and melted limbs, that
the tears came to his eyes.
With an infinity of quite unnecessary precautions–for nothing short of a
pistol shot could have called Lenina back from her soma-holiday before
the appointed time–he entered the room, he knelt on the floor beside the bed.
He gazed, he clasped his hands, his lips moved. "Her eyes," he murmured,
"Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice;
Handlest in thy discourse O! that her hand,
In whose comparison all whites are ink
Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure
The cygnet's down is harsh …"
A fly buzzed round her; he waved it away. "Flies," he remembered,
"On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand, may seize
And steal immortal blessing from her lips,
Who, even in pure and vestal modesty,
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin."
Very slowly, with the hesitating gesture of one who reaches forward to
stroke a shy and possibly rather dangerous bird, he put out his hand. It hung
there trembling, within an inch of those limp fingers, on the verge of
contact. Did he dare? Dare to profane with his unworthiest hand that … No, he
didn't. The bird was too dangerous. His hand dropped back. How beautiful she
was! How beautiful!
Then suddenly he found himself reflecting that he had only to take hold of
the zipper at her neck and give one long, strong pull … He shut his eyes, he
shook his head with the gesture of a dog shaking its ears as it emerges from
the water. Detestable thought! He was ashamed of himself. Pure and vestal
modesty …
There was a humming in the air. Another fly trying to steal immortal
blessings? A wasp? He looked, saw nothing. The humming grew louder and louder,
localized itself as being outside the shuttered windows. The plane! In a
panic, he scrambled to his feet and ran into the other room, vaulted through
the open window, and hurrying along the path between the tall agaves was in
time to receive Bernard Marx as he climbed out of the helicopter.
