“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 faet. 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 Aphroditeum 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 presences. 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.”
Liked him more and more. Well， now there’d be a real chance， she thought， as she scented herself after her bath. Dab， dab， dab–a real chance. Her high spirits overflowed in a song.
“Hug me till you drug me， honey； Kiss me till I’m in a coma； Hug me， honey， snuggly bunny； Love’s as good as soma.”
The scent organ was playing a delightfully refreshing Herbal Capriccio–rippling arpeggios of thyme and lavender， of rosemary， basil， myrtle， tarragon； a series of daring modulations through the spice keys into ambergris； and a slow return through sandalwood， camphor， cedar and newmown hay （with occasional subtle touches of discord–a whiff of kidney pudding， the faintest suspicion of pig’s dung） back to the simple aromatics with which the piece began. The final blast of thyme died away； there was a round of applause； the lights went up. In the synthetic music machine the sound-track roll began to unwind. It was a trio for hyper-violin， super-cello and oboe-surrogate that now filled the air with its agreeable languor. Thirty or forty bars–and then， against this instrumental background， a much more than human voice began to warble； now throaty， now from the head， now hollow as a flute， now charged with yearning harmonics， it effortlessly passed from Gaspard’s Forster’s low record on the very frontiers of musical tone to a trilled bat-note high above the highest C to which （in 1770， at the Ducal opera of Parma， and to the astonishment of Mozart） Lucrezia Ajugari， alone of all the singers in history， once piercingly gave utterance.
Sunk in their pneumatic stalls， Lenina and the Savage sniffed and listened. It was now the turn also for eyes and skin.
The house lights went down； fiery letters stood out solid and as though self-supported in the darkness. THREE WEEKS IN A HELICOPTER . AN ALL-SUPER-SINGING， SYNTHETIC-TALK1NG， COLOURED， STEREOSCOPIC FEELY. WITH SYNCHRONIZED SCENT-ORGAN ACCOMPANIMENT.
“Take hold of those metal knobs on the arms of your chair，” whispered Lenina. “Otherwise you won’t get any of the feely effects.”
The Savage did as he was told.
Those fiery letters， meanwhile， had disappeared； there were ten seconds of complete darkness； then suddenly， dazzling and incomparably more solid-looking than they would have seemed in actual flesh and blood， far more real than reality， there stood the stereoscopic images， locked in one another’s arms， of a gigantic negro and a golden-haired young brachycephalic Beta-Plus female.
The Savage started. That sensation on his lips！ He lifted a hand to his mouth； the titillation ceased； let his hand fall back on the metal knob； it began again. The scent organ， meanwhile， breathed pure musk. Expiringly， a sound-track super-dove cooed “Oo-ooh”； and vibrating only thirty-two times a second， a deeper than African bass made answer： “Aa-aah.” “Ooh-ah！ Ooh-ah！” the stereoscopic lips came together again， and once more the facial erogenous zones of the six thousand spectators in the Alhambra tingled with almost intolerable galvanic pleasure. “Ooh…”
