The Savage tried to imagine it, not very successfully.
"It's an absurdity.
An Alpha-decanted, Alpha-conditioned man would go mad if he had to do Epsilon Semi-Moron work-go mad, or start smashing things up.
Alphas can be completely socialized-but only on condition that you make them do Alpha work.
Only an Epsilon can be expected to make Epsilon sacrifices, for the good reason that for him they aren't sacrifices; they're the line of least resistance. His conditioning has laid down rails along which he's got to run. He can't help himself; he's foredoomed.
Even after decanting, he's still inside a bot-tle-an invisible bottle of infantile and embryonic fixations.
Each one of us, of course," the Controller meditatively continued, "goes through life inside a bottle.
But if we happen to be Alphas, our bottles are, rela- tively speaking, enormous.
We should suffer acutely if we were confined in a narrower space.
You cannot pour upper-caste champagne-surrogate into lower-caste bottles.
It's obvious theoretically.
But it has also been proved in actual practice.
The result of the Cyprus experiment was convincing."
"What was that?" asked the Savage.
Mustapha Mond smiled. "Well, you can call it an experiment in rebot-tling if you like.
It began in A.F. 473.
The Controllers had the island of Cyprus cleared of all its existing inhabitants and re-colonized with a specially prepared batch of twenty-two thousand Alphas.
All agricultural and industrial equipment was handed over to them and they were left to manage their own affairs.
The result exactly fulfilled all the theoretical predictions.
The land wasn't properly worked; there were strikes in all the factories; the laws were set at naught, orders disobeyed; all the people detailed for a spell of low-grade work were perpetually intriguing for high-grade jobs, and all the people with high-grade jobs were counter-intriguing at all costs to stay where they were.
Within six years they were having a first-class civil war.
When nineteen out of the twenty-two thousand had been killed, the survivors unanimously petitioned the World Controllers to resume the government of the island.
Which they did.
And that was the end of the only society of Alphas that the world has ever seen."
The Savage sighed, profoundly.
"The optimum population," said Mustapha Mond, "is modelled on the iceberg-eight-ninths below the water line, one-ninth above."
"And they're happy below the water line?"
"Happier than above it.
Happier than your friend here, for example." He pointed.
"In spite of that awful work?"
"Awful?
They don't find it so.
On the contrary, they like it.
It's light, it's childishly simple.
No strain on the mind or the muscles.
Seven and a half hours of mild, unexhausting labour, and then the soma ration and games and unrestricted copulation and the feelies.
What more can they ask for?
True," he added, "they might ask for shorter hours.
And of course we could give them shorter hours.
Technically, it would be perfectly simple to reduce all lower-caste working hours to three or four a day.
But would they be any the happier for that?
No, they wouldn't.
The experiment was tried, more than a century and a half ago.
The whole of Ireland was put on to the four-hour day.
What was the result?
Unrest and a large increase in the consumption of soma; that was all.
Those three and a half hours of extra leisure were so far from being a source of happiness, that people felt constrained to take a holiday from them.
The Inventions Office is stuffed with plans for labour-saving processes.
Thousands of them."
Mustapha Mond made a lavish gesture.