them, with his or her ticket, the booking clerk pushed over a little cardboard pill-box. The long caterpillar of men and women moved slowly forward.

‘What’s in those’ (remembering The Merchant of Venice), ‘those caskets?’ the Savage enquired when Bernard had rejoined him.

‘The day’s soma ration,’ Bernard answered, rather indistinctly; for he was masticating a piece of Benito Hoover’s chewing-gum. ‘They get it after their work’s over. Four half-gramme tablets. Six on Saturdays.’

He took John’s arm affectionately and they walked back towards the helicopter.

Lenina came singing into the Changing Room.

‘You seem very pleased with yourself,’ said Fanny.

‘I am pleased,’ she answered. Zip! ‘Bernard rang up half an hour ago.’ Zip, zip! She stepped out of her shorts. ‘He has an unexpected engagement.’ Zip! ‘Asked me if I’d take the Savage to the feelies this evening. I must fly.’ She hurried away towards the bathroom.

‘She’s a lucky girl,’ Fanny said to herself as she watched Lenina go.

There was no envy in the comment; good-natured Fanny was merely stating a fact. Lenina was lucky; lucky in having shared with Bernard a generous portion of the Savage’s immense celebrity, lucky in reflecting from her insignificant person the moment’s supremely fashionable glory. Had not the Secretary of the Young Women’s Fordian Association asked her to give a lecture about her experiences? Had she not been invited to the Annual Dinner of the Aphroditæum Club? Had she not already appeared in the Feelytone News—visibly, audibly and tactually appeared to countless millions all over the planet?

Hardly less flattering had been the attentions paid her by conspicuous individuals. The Resident World Controller’s Second Secretary had asked her to dinner and breakfast. She had spent one week-end with the Ford Chief-Justice, and another with the Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury. The President of the Internal and External Secretions Corporation was perpetually on the phone, and she had been to Deauville with the Deputy-Governor of the Bank of Europe.

‘It’s wonderful, of course. And yet in a way,’ she had confessed to Fanny, ‘I feel as though I were getting something on false pretences. Because, of course, the first thing they all want to know is what it’s like to make love to a Savage. And I have to say I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘Most of the men don’t believe me, of course. But it’s true. I wish it weren’t,’ she added sadly and sighed. ‘He’s terribly good- looking; don’t you think so?’

‘But doesn’t he like you?’ asked Fanny.

‘Sometimes I think he does and sometimes I think he doesn’t. He always does his best to avoid me; goes out of the room when I come in; won’t touch me; won’t even look at me. But sometimes if I turn round suddenly, I catch him staring; and then—well, you know how men look when they like you.’

Yes, Fanny knew.

‘I can’t make it out,’ said Lenina.

She couldn’t make it out; and not only was bewildered; was also rather upset.

‘Because, you see, Fanny, I like him.’