She shook her head. "I don't know what you mean."
Why was he so queer?
Why did he go out of his way to spoil things?
In the taxicopter he hardly even looked at her.
Bound by strong vows that had never been pronounced, obedient to laws that had long since ceased to run, he sat averted and in silence.
Sometimes, as though a finger had plucked at some taut, almost breaking string, his whole body would shake with a sudden nervous start.
The taxicopter landed on the roof of Lenina's apartment house.
"At last," she thought exultantly as she stepped out of the cab.
At last-even though he had been so queer just now.
Standing under a lamp, she peered into her hand mirror.
At last.
Yes, her nose was a bit shiny.
She shook the loose powder from her puff.
While he was paying off the taxi-there would just be time.
She rubbed at the shininess, thinking:
"He's terribly good-looking.
No need for him to be shy like Bernard.
And yet ... Any other man would have done it long ago.
Well, now at last."
That fragment of a face in the little round mirror suddenly smiled at her.
"Good-night," said a strangled voice behind her.
Lenina wheeled round. He was standing in the doorway of the cab, his eyes fixed, staring; had evidently been staring all this time while she was powdering her nose, waiting-but what for? or hesitating, trying to make up his mind, and all the time thinking, thinking-she could not imagine what extraordinary thoughts.
"Good-night, Lenina," he repeated, and made a strange grimacing attempt to smile.
"But, John ... I thought you were ... I mean, aren't you? ..."
He shut the door and bent forward to say something to the driver.
The cab shot up into the air.
Looking down through the window in the floor, the Savage could see Lenina's upturned face, pale in the bluish light of the lamps.
The mouth was open, she was calling.
Her foreshortened figure rushed away from him; the diminishing square of the roof seemed to be falling through the darkness.
Five minutes later he was back in his room.
From its hiding-place he took out his mouse-nibbled volume, turned with religious care its stained and crumbled pages, and began to read Othello.
Othello, he remembered, was like the hero of Three Weeks in a Helicopter-a black man.
Drying her eyes, Lenina walked across the roof to the lift.
On her way down to the twenty-seventh floor she pulled out her soma bottle.
One gramme, she decided, would not be enough; hers had been more than a one-gramme affliction.
But if she took two grammes, she ran the risk of not waking up in time to-morrow morning.
She compromised and, into her cupped left palm, shook out three half-gramme tablets.
Chapter Twelve
BERNARD had to shout through the locked door; the Savage would not open.
"But everybody's there, waiting for you."
"Let them wait," came back the muffled voice through the door.
"But you know quite well, John" (how difficult it is to sound persuasive at the top of one's voice!) "I asked them on purpose to meet you."
"You ought to have asked me first whether I wanted to meet them."
"But you always came before, John."
"That's precisely why I don't want to come again."
"Just to please me," Bernard bellowingly wheedled.
"Won't you come to please me?"
"No."
"Do you seriously mean it?"
"Yes."