Page 49 - BraveNewWorld
P. 49

Five







                      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 stret-
                      ched 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 brilli-
                      ance 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?” en-
                      quired Lenina.




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