THE Park Lane Hospital for the Dying was a sixty-story tower of primrose tiles. As the Savage stepped out of his taxicopter a convoy of gaily-coloured aerial hearses rose whirring from the roof and darted away across the Park， westwards， bound for the Slough Crematorium. At the lift gates the presiding porter gave him the information he required， and he dropped down to Ward 81 （a Galloping Senility ward， the porter explained） on the seventeenth floor.
It was a large room bright with sunshine and yellow paint， and containing twenty beds， all occupied. Linda was dying in company–in company and with all the modern conveniences. The air was continuously alive with gay synthetic melodies. At the foot of every bed， confronting its moribund occupant， was a television box. Television was left on， a running tap， from morning till night. Every quarter of an hour the prevailing perfume of the room was automatically changed. “We try，” explained the nurse， who had taken charge of the Savage at the door， “we try to create a thoroughly pleasant atmosphere here–something between a first-class hotel and a feely-palace， if you take my meaning.”
“Where is she？” asked the Savage， ignoring these polite explanations.
The nurse was offended. “You are in a hurry，” she said.
“Is there any hope？” he asked.
“You mean， of her not dying？” （He nodded.） “No， of course there isn’t. When somebody’s sent here， there’s no…” Startled by the expression of distress on his pale face， she suddenly broke off. “Why， whatever is the matter？” she asked. She was not accustomed to this kind of thing in visitors. （Not that there were many visitors anyhow： or any reason why there should be many visitors.） “You’re not feeling ill， are you？”
He shook his head. “She’s my mother，” he said in a scarcely audible voice.
The nurse glanced at him with startled， horrified eyes； then quickly looked away. From throat to temple she was all one hot blush.
“Take me to her，” said the Savage， making an effort to speak in an ordinary tone.
Still blushing， she led the way down the ward. Faces still fresh and unwithered （for senility galloped so hard that it had no time to age the cheeks–only the heart and brain） turned as they passed. Their progress was followed by the blank， incurious eyes of second infancy. The Savage shuddered as he looked.
Linda was lying in the last of the long row of beds， next to the wall. Propped up on pillows， she was watching the Semi-finals of the South American Riemann-Surface Tennis Championship， which were being played in silent and diminished reproduction on the screen of the television box at the foot of the bed. Hither and thither across their square of illuminted glass the little figures noiselessly darted， like fish in an aquarium–the silent but agitated inhabitants of another world.
Linda looked on， vaguely and uncomprehendingly smiling. Her pale， bloated face wore an expression of imbecile happiness. Every now and then her eyelids closed， and for a few seconds she seemed to be dozing. Then with a little start she would wake up again–wake up to the aquarium antics of the Tennis Champions， to the Super-Vox-Wurlitzeriana rendering of “Hug me till you drug me， honey，” to the warm draught of verbena that came blowing through the ventilator above her head–would wake to these things， or rather to a dream of which these things， transformed and embellished by the soma in her blood， were the marvellous constituents， and smile once more her broken and discoloured smile of infantile contentment.
“Well， I must go，” said the nurse. “I’ve got my batch of children coming. Besides， there’s Number 3.” She pointed up the ward. “Might go off any minute now. Well， make yourself comfortable.” She walked briskly away.
The Savage sat down beside the bed.
“Linda，” he whispered， taking her hand.
At the sound of her name， she turned. Her vague eyes brightened with recognition. She squeezed his hand， she smiled， her lips moved； then quite suddenly her head fell forward. She was asleep. He sat watching her–seeking through the tired flesh， seeking and finding that young， bright face which had stooped over his childhood in Malpais， remembering （and he closed his eyes） her voice， her movements， all the events of their life together. “Streptocock-Gee to Banbury T…” How beautiful her singing had been！ And those childish rhymes， how magically strange and mysterious！
A， B， C， vitamin D： The fat’s in the liver， the cod’s in the sea.
He felt the hot tears welling up behind his eyelids as he recalled the words and Linda’s voice as she repeated them. And then the reading lessons： The tot is in the pot， the cat is on the mat； and the Elementary Instructions for Beta Workers in the Embryo Store. And long evenings by the fire or， in summertime， on the roof of the little house， when she told him those stories about the Other Place， outside the Reservation： that beautiful， beautiful Other Place， whose memory， as of a heaven， a paradise of goodness and loveliness， he still kept whole and intact， undefiled by contact with the reality of this real London， these actual civilized men and women.
A sudden noise of shrill voices made him open his eyes and， after hastily brushing away the tears， look round. What seemed an interminable stream of identical eight-year-old male twins was pouring into the room. Twin after twin， twin after twin， they came–a nightmare. Their faces， their repeated face–for there was only one between the lot of them–puggishly stared， all nostrils and pale goggling eyes. Their uniform was khaki. All their mouths hung open. Squealing and chattering they entered. In a moment， it seemed， the ward was maggoty with them. They swarmed between the beds， clambered over， crawled under， peeped into the television boxes， made faces at the patients.
Linda astonished and rather alarmed them. A group stood clustered at the foot of her bed， staring with the frightened and stupid curiosity of animals suddenly confronted by the unknown.
“Oh， look， look！” They spoke in low， scared voices. “Whatever is the matter with her？ Why is she so fat？”
