You should see the way a negro ovary responds to pituitary!
It's quite astonishing, when you're used to working with European material.
Still," he added, with a laugh (but the light of combat was in his eyes and the lift of his chin was challenging), "still, we mean to beat them if we can.
I'm working on a wonderful Delta-Minus ovary at this moment.
Only just eighteen months old.
Over twelve thousand seven hundred children already, either decanted or in embryo.
And still going strong.
We'll beat them yet."
"That's the spirit I like!" cried the Director, and clapped Mr. Foster on the shoulder.
"Come along with us, and give these boys the benefit of your expert knowledge."
Mr. Foster smiled modestly.
"With pleasure."
They went.
In the Bottling Room all was harmonious bustle and ordered activity.
Flaps of fresh sow's peritoneum ready cut to the proper size came shooting up in little lifts from the Organ Store in the sub-basement.
Whizz and then, click! the lift-hatches hew open; the bottle-liner had only to reach out a hand, take the flap, insert, smooth-down, and before the lined bottle had had time to travel out of reach along the endless band, whizz, click! another flap of peritoneum had shot up from the depths, ready to be slipped into yet another bottle, the next of that slow interminable procession on the band.
Next to the Liners stood the Matriculators.
The procession advanced; one by one the eggs were transferred from their test-tubes to the larger containers; deftly the peritoneal lining was slit, the morula dropped into place, the saline solution poured in ... and already the bottle had passed, and it was the turn of the labellers.
Heredity, date of fertilization, membership of Bokanovsky Group-details were transferred from test-tube to bottle.
No longer anonymous, but named, identified, the procession marched slowly on; on through an opening in the wall, slowly on into the Social Predestination Room.
"Eighty-eight cubic metres of card-index," said Mr. Foster with relish, as they entered.
"Containing all the relevant information," added the Director.
"Brought up to date every morning."
"And co-ordinated every afternoon."
"On the basis of which they make their calculations."
"So many individuals, of such and such quality," said Mr. Foster.
"Distributed in such and such quantities."
"The optimum Decanting Rate at any given moment."
"Unforeseen wastages promptly made good."
"Promptly," repeated Mr. Foster.
"If you knew the amount of overtime I had to put in after the last Japanese earthquake!"
He laughed good-humouredly and shook his head.
"The Predestinators send in their figures to the Fertilizers."
"Who give them the embryos they ask for."
"And the bottles come in here to be predestined in detail."
"After which they are sent down to the Embryo Store."
"Where we now proceed ourselves."
And opening a door Mr. Foster led the way down a staircase into the basement.
The temperature was still tropical.
They descended into a thickening twilight.
Two doors and a passage with a double turn insured the cellar against any possible infiltration of the day.
"Embryos are like photograph film," said Mr. Foster waggishly, as he pushed open the second door.
"They can only stand red light."
And in effect the sultry darkness into which the students now followed him was visible and crimson, like the darkness of closed eyes on a summer's afternoon.
The bulging flanks of row on receding row and tier above tier of bottles glinted with innumerable rubies, and among the rubies moved the dim red spectres of men and women with purple eyes and all the symptoms of lupus.
The hum and rattle of machinery faintly stirred the air.
"Give them a few figures, Mr. Foster," said the Director, who was tired of talking.
Mr. Foster was only too happy to give them a few figures.
Two hundred and twenty metres long, two hundred wide, ten high.
He pointed upwards.