His fordship Mustapha Mond! The eyes of the saluting students almost popped out of their heads. Mustapha Mond! The Resident Controller for Western Europe! One of the Ten World Controllers. One of the Ten…and he sat down on the bench with the D.H.C., he was going to stay, to stay, yes, and actually talk to them…straight from the horse’s mouth. Straight from the mouth of Ford himself.

Two shrimp-brown children emerged from a neighbouring shrubbery, stared at them for a moment with large, astonished eyes, then returned to their amusements among the leaves.

‘You all remember,’ said the Controller, in his strong deep voice, ‘you all remember, I suppose, that beautiful and inspired saying of Our Ford’s: History is bunk. History,’ he repeated slowly, ‘is bunk.’

He waved his hand; and it was as though, with an invisible feather whisk, he had brushed away a little dust, and the dust was Harappa, was Ur of the Chaldees; some spider-webs, and they were Thebes and Babylon and Cnossos and Mycenae. Whisk, Whisk—and where was Odysseus, where was Job, where were Jupiter and Gotama and Jesus? Whisk—and those specks of antique dirt called Athens and Rome, Jerusalem and the Middle Kingdom—all were gone. Whisk—the place where Italy had been was empty. Whisk, the cathedrals; whisk, whisk, King Lear and the Thoughts of Pascal. Whisk,

Passion; whisk, Requiem; whisk, Symphony; whisk…

‘Going to the Feelies this evening, Henry?’ enquired the Assistant Predestinator. ‘I hear the new one at the Alhambra is first-rate. There’s a love scene on a bearskin rug; they say it’s marvellous. Every hair of the bear reproduced. The most amazing tactual effects.’

‘That’s why you’re taught no history,’ the Controller was saying. ‘But now the time has come…’

The D.H.C. looked at him nervously. There were those strange rumours of old forbidden books hidden in a safe in the Controller’s study. Bibles, poetry—Ford knew what.

Mustapha Mond intercepted his anxious glance and the corners of his red lips twitched ironically.

‘It’s all right, Director,’ he said in a tone of faint derision, ‘I won’t corrupt them.’

The D.H.C. was overwhelmed with confusion.

Those who feel themselves despised do well to look despising. The smile on Bernard Marx’s face was contemptuous. Every hair on the bear indeed!

‘I shall make a point of going,’ said Henry Foster.

Mustapha Mond leaned forward, shook a finger at them. ‘Just try to realize it,’ he said, and his voice sent a strange thrill quivering along their diaphragms. ‘Try to realize what it was like to have a viviparous mother.’

That smutty word again. But none of them dreamed, this time, of smiling.

‘Try to imagine what “living with one’s family” meant.’

They tried; but obviously without the smallest success.

‘And do you know what a “home” was?’

They shook their heads.

From her dim crimson cellar Lenina Crowne shot up seventeen stories, turned to the right as she stepped out of the lift, walked down a long corridor and, opening the door marked Girls’ Dressing-Room, plunged