“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 goodhumouredly 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. Like chickens drinking， the students lifted their eyes towards the distant ceiling.
Three tiers of racks： ground floor level， first gallery， second gallery.
The spidery steel-work of gallery above gallery faded away in all directions into the dark. Near them three red ghosts were busily unloading demijohns from a moving staircase.
The escalator from the Social Predestination Room.
Each bottle could be placed on one of fifteen racks， each rack， though you couldn’t see it， was a conveyor traveling at the rate of thirty-three and a third centimetres an hour. Two hundred and sixty-seven days at eight metres a day. Two thousand one hundred and thirty-six metres in all. One circuit of the cellar at ground level， one on the first gallery， half on the second， and on the two hundred and sixty-seventh morning， daylight in the Decanting Room. Independent existence–so called.
“But in the interval，” Mr. Foster concluded， “we’ve managed to do a lot to them. Oh， a very great deal.” His laugh was knowing and triumphant.
“That’s the spirit I like，” said the Director once more. “Let’s walk around. You tell them everything， Mr. Foster.”
Mr. Foster duly told them.
Told them of the growing embryo on its bed of peritoneum. Made them taste the rich blood surrogate on which it fed. Explained why it had to be stimulated with placentin and thyroxin. Told them of the corpus luteum extract. Showed them the jets through which at every twelfth metre from zero to 2040 it was automatically injected. Spoke of those gradually increasing doses of pituitary administered during the final ninety-six metres of their course. Described the artificial maternal circulation installed in every bottle at Metre 112； showed them the resevoir of blood-surrogate， the centrifugal pump that kept the liquid moving over the placenta and drove it through the synthetic lung and waste product filter. Referred to the embryo’s troublesome tendency to an？mia， to the massive doses of hog’s stomach extract and foetal foal’s liver with which， in consequence， it had to be supplied.
Showed them the simple mechanism by means of which， during the last two metres out of every eight， all the embryos were simultaneously shaken into familiarity with movement. Hinted at the gravity of the so-called “trauma of decanting，” and enumerated the precautions taken to minimize， by a suitable training of the bottled embryo， that dangerous shock. Told them of the test for sex carried out in the neighborhood of Metre 200. Explained the system of labelling–a T for the males， a circle for the females and for those who were destined to become freemartins a question mark， black on a white ground.
“For of course，” said Mr. Foster， “in the vast majority of cases， fertility is merely a nuisance. One fertile ovary in twelve hundred–that would really be quite sufficient for our purposes. But we want to have a good choice. And of course one must always have an enormous margin of safety. So we allow as many as thirty per cent of the female embryos to develop normally. The others get a dose of male sex-hormone every twenty-four metres for the rest of the course. Result： they’re decanted as freemartins–structurally quite normal， except，” he had to admit， “that they do have the slightest tendency to grow beards， but sterile. Guaranteed sterile. Which brings us at last，” continued Mr. Foster， “out of the realm of mere slavish imitation of nature into the much more interesting world of human invention.”
He rubbed his hands. For of course， they didn’t content themselves with merely hatching out embryos： any cow could do that.
“We also predestine and condition. We decant our babies as socialized human beings， as Alphas or Epsilons， as future sewage workers or future…” He was going to say “future World controllers，” but correcting himself， said “future Directors of Hatcheries，” instead.
The D.H.C. acknowledged the compliment with a smile.
They were passing Metre 320 on Rack 11. A young Beta-Minus mechanic was busy with screw-driver and spanner on the blood-surrogate pump of a passing bottle. The hum of the electric motor deepened by fractions of a tone as he turned the nuts. Down， down…A final twist， a glance at the revolution counter， and he was done. He moved two paces down the line and began the same process on the next pump.
