The plot of the film was extremely simple. A few minutes after the first Oohs and Aahs （a duet having been sung and a little love made on that famous bearskin， every hair of which–the Assistant Predestinator was perfectly right–could be separately and distinctly felt）， the negro had a helicopter accident， fell on his head. Thump！ whata twinge through the forehead！ A chorus of ow’s and aie’s went up from the audience.
The concussion knocked all the negro’s conditionimg into a cocked hat. He developed for the Beta blonde an exclusive and maniacal passion. She protested. He persisted. There were struggles， pursuits， an assault on a rival， finally a sensational kidnapping. The Beta blond was ravished away into the sky and kept there， hovering， for three weeks in a wildly anti-social tête-à-tête with the black madman. Finally， after a whole series of adventures and much aerial acrobacy three handsome young Alphas succeeded in rescuing her. The negro was packed off to an Adult Re-conditioning Centre and the film ended happily and decorously， with the Beta blonde becoming the mistress of all her three rescuers. They interrupted themselves for a moment to sing a synthetic quartet， with full super-orchestral accompaniment and gardenias on the scent organ. Then the bearskin made a final appearance and， amid a blare of saxophones， the last stereoscopic kiss faded into darkness， the last electric titillation died on the lips like a dying moth that quivers， quivers， ever more feebly， ever more faintly， and at last is quiet， quite still.
But for Lenina the moth did not completely die. Even after the lights had gone up， while they were shuffling slowly along with the crowd towards the lifts， its ghost still fluttered against her lips， still traced fine shuddering roads of anxiety and pleasure across her skin. Her cheeks were flushed. She caught hold of the Savage’s arm and pressed it， limp， against her side. He looked down at her for a moment， pale， pained， desiring， and ashamed of his desire. He was not worthy， not…Their eyes for a moment met. What treasures hers promised！ A queen’s ransom of temperament. Hastily he looked away， disengaged his imprisoned arm. He was obscurely terrified lest she should cease to be something he could feel himself unworthy of.
“I don’t think you ought to see things like that，” he said， making haste to transfer from Lenina herself to the surrounding circumstances the blame for any past or possible future lapse from perfection.
“Things like what， John？”
“Like this horrible film.”
“Horrible？” Lenina was genuinely astonished. “But I thought it was lovely.”
“It was base，” he said indignantly， “it was ignoble.”
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 fioor， 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.
