第48章 Chapter Five(1)

　　BY EIGHT O’CLOCK the light was failing. The loud speaker in the tower of the Stoke Poges Club House began， in a more than human tenor， to announce the closing of the courses. Lenina and Henry abandoned their game and walked back towards the Club. From the grounds of the Internal and External Secretion Trust came the lowing of those thousands of cattle which provided， with their hormones and their milk， the raw materials for the great factory at Farnham Royal.

　　An incessant buzzing of helicopters filled the twilight. Every two and a half minutes a bell and the screech of whistles announced the departure of one of the light monorail trains which carried the lower caste golfers back from their separate course to the metropolis.

　　Lenina and Henry climbed into their machine and started off. At eight hundred feet Henry slowed down the helicopter screws， and they hung for a minute or two poised above the fading landscape. The forest of Burnham Beeches stretched like a great pool of darkness towards the bright shore of the western sky. Crimson at the horizon， the last of the sunset faded， through orange， upwards into yellow and a pale watery green. Northwards， beyond and above the trees， the Internal and External Secretions factory glared with a fierce electric brilliance from every window of its twenty stories. Beneath them lay the buildings of the Golf Club–the huge Lower Caste barracks and， on the other side of a dividing wall， the smaller houses reserved for Alpha and Beta members. The approaches to the monorail station were black with the ant-like pullulation of lower-caste activity. From under the glass vault a lighted train shot out into the open. Following its southeasterly course across the dark plain their eyes were drawn to the majestic buildings of the Slough Crematorium. For the safety of night-flying planes， its four tall chimneys were flood-lighted and tipped with crimson danger signals. It was a landmark.

　　“Why do the smoke-stacks have those things like balconies around them？” enquired Lenina.

　　“Phosphorus recovery，” explained Henry telegraphically. “On their way up the chimney the gases go through four separate treatments. P2O5 used to go right out of circulation every time they cremated some one. Now they recover over ninety-eight per cent of it. More than a kilo and a half per adult corpse. Which makes the best part of four hundred tons of phosphorus every year from England alone.” Henry spoke with a happy pride， rejoicing whole-heartedly in the achievement， as though it had been his own. “Fine to think we can go on being socially useful even after we’re dead. Making plants grow.”

　　Lenina， meanwhile， had turned her eyes away and was looking perpendicularly downwards at the monorail station. “Fine，” she agreed. “But queer that Alphas and Betas won’t make any more plants grow than those nasty little Gammas and Deltas and Epsilons down there.”

　　“All men are physico-chemically equal，” said Henry sententiously. “Besides， even Epsilons perform indispensable services.”

　　“Even an Epsilon…” Lenina suddenly remembered an occasion when， as a little girl at school， she had woken up in the middle of the night and become aware， for the first time， of the whispering that had haunted all her sleeps. She saw again the beam of moonlight， the row of small white beds； heard once more the soft， soft voice that said （the words were there， unforgotten， unforgettable after so many night-long repetitions）： “Every one works for every one else. We can’t do without any one. Even Epsilons are useful. We couldn’t do without Epsilons. Every one works for every one else. We can’t do without any one…” Lenina remembered her first shock of fear and surprise； her speculations through half a wakeful hour； and then， under the influence of those endless repetitions， the gradual soothing of her mind， the soothing， the smoothing， the stealthy creeping of sleep.…

　　“I suppose Epsilons don’t really mind being Epsilons，” she said aloud.

　　“Of course they don’t. How can they？ They don’t know what it’s like being anything else. We’d mind， of course. But then we’ve been differently conditioned. Besides， we start with a different heredity.”

　　“I’m glad I’m not an Epsilon，” said Lenina， with conviction.

　　“And if you were an Epsilon，” said Henry， “your conditioning would have made you no less thankful that you weren’t a Beta or an Alpha.” He put his forward propeller into gear and headed the machine towards London. Behind them， in the west， the crimson and orange were almost faded； a dark bank of cloud had crept into the zenith. As they flew over the crematorium， the plane shot upwards on the column of hot air rising from the chimneys， only to fall as suddenly when it passed into the descending chill beyond.

　　“What a marvellous switchback！” Lenina laughed delightedly.

　　But Henry’s tone was almost， for a moment， melancholy. “Do you know what that switchback was？” he said. “It was some human being finally and definitely disappearing. Going up in a squirt of hot gas. It would be curious to know who it was–a man or a woman， an Alpha or an Epsilon.…” He sighed. Then， in a resolutely cheerful voice， “Anyhow，” he concluded， “there’s one thing we can be certain of； whoever he may have been， he was happy when he was alive. Everybody’s happy now.”

　　“Yes， everybody’s happy now，” echoed Lenina. They had heard the words repeated a hundred and fifty times every night for twelve years.

　　Landing on the roof of Henry’s forty-story apartment house in Westminster， they went straight down to the dining-hall. There， in a loud and cheerful company， they ate an excellent meal. Soma was served with the coffee. Lenina took two half-gramme tablets and Henry three. At twenty past nine they walked across the street to the newly opened Westminster Abbey Cabaret. It was a night almost without clouds， moonless and starry； but of this on the whole depressing fact Lenina and Henry were fortunately unaware. The electric sky-signs effectively shut off the outer darkness. “CALVIN STOPES AND HIS SIXTEEN SEXOPHONISTS.” From the fa？ade of the new Abbey the giant letters invitingly glared. “LONDON’S FINEST SCENT AND COLOUR ORGAN. ALL THE LATEST SYNTHETIC MUSIC.”