Island - Aldous Huxley [69]
The door beneath the board was ajar; he pushed it open and found himself on the threshold of a long, high-ceilinged room. There were the usual sinks and worktables, the usual glass-fronted cabinets full of bottles and equipment, the usual smells of chemicals and caged mice. For the first moment Will was under the impression that the room was untenanted, but no—almost hidden from view by a bookcase that projected at right angles from the wall, young Murugan was seated at a table, intently reading. As quietly as he could—for it was always amusing to take people by surprise—Will advanced into the room. The whirring of an electric fan covered the sound of his approach, and it was not until he was within a few feet of the bookcase that Murugan became aware of his presence. The boy started guiltily, shoved his book with panic haste into a leather briefcase and, reaching for another, smaller volume that lay open on the table beside the briefcase, drew it within reading range. Only then did he turn to face the intruder.
Will gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s only me.”
The look of angry defiance gave place, on the boy’s face, to one of relief.
“I thought it was…” He broke off, leaving the sentence unfinished.
“You thought it was someone who would bawl you out for not doing what you’re supposed to do—is that it?”
Murugan grinned and nodded his curly head.
“Where’s everyone else?” Will asked.
“They’re out in the fields—pruning or pollinating or something.” His tone was contemptuous.
“And so, the cats being away, the mouse duly played. What were you studying so passionately?”
With innocent disingenuousness, Murugan held up the book he was now pretending to read. “It’s called Elementary Ecology,” he said.
“So I see,” said Will. “But what I asked you was what were you reading?”
“Oh, that,” Murugan shrugged his shoulders. “You wouldn’t be interested.”
“I’m interested in everything that anyone tries to hide,” Will assured him. “Was it pornography?”
Murugan dropped his playacting and looked genuinely offended. “Who do you take me for?”
Will was on the point of saying that he took him for an average boy, but checked himself. To Colonel Dipa’s pretty young friend, “average boy” might sound like an insult or an innuendo. Instead he bowed with mock politeness. “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon,” he said. “But I’m still curious,” he added in another tone. “May I?” He laid a hand on the bulging briefcase.
Murugan hesitated for a moment, then forced a laugh. “Go ahead.”
“What a tome!” Will pulled the ponderous volume out of the bag and laid it on the table. “Sears, Roebuck and Co.,” he read aloud, “Spring and Summer Catalog.”
“It’s last year’s,” said Murugan apologetically. “But I don’t suppose there’s been much change since then.”
“There,” Will assured him, “you’re mistaken. If the styles weren’t completely changed every year, there’d be no reason for buying new things before the old ones are worn out. You don’t understand the first principles of modern consumerism.” He opened at random. “‘Soft Platform Wedgies in Wide Widths.’” Opened at another place and found the description and image of a Whisper-Pink Bra in Dacron and Pima cotton. Turned the page and here, memento mori, was what the bra-buyer would be wearing twenty years later—A Strap-Controlled Front, Cupped to Support Pendulous Abdomen.
“It doesn’t get really interesting,” said Murugan, “until near the end of the book. It has thirteen hundred and fifty-eight pages,” he added parenthetically. “Imagine! Thirteen hundred and fifty-eight!”
Will skipped the next seven hundred and fifty pages.
“Ah, this is more like it,” he said. “‘Our Famous .22 Revolvers and Automatics.’” And here, a little further on, were the Fibre Glass Boats, here were the High Thrust Inboard Engines, here was a 12-hp Outboard for only $234.95—and the Fuel Tank was included. “That’s extraordinarily generous!”
But Murugan, it was evident, was no sailor. Taking the book, he leafed impatiently through a score of additional pages.
“Look at this Italian Style Motor Scooter!” And while Will