“A good beginning for a Solidarity Service，” thought Bernard miserably， and foresaw for himself yet another failure to achieve atonement. If only he had given himself time to look around instead of scuttling for the nearest chair！ He could have sat between Fifi Bradlaugh and Joanna Diesel. Instead of which he had gone and blindly planted himself next to Morgana. Morgana！ Ford！ Those black eyebrows of hers–that eyebrow， rather–for they met above the nose. Ford！ And on his right was Clara Deterding. True， Clara’s eyebrows didn’t meet. But she was really too pneumatic. Whereas Fifi and Joanna were absolutely right. Plump， blonde， not too large…And it was that great lout， Tom Kawaguchi， who now took the seat between them.
The last arrival was Sarojini Engels.
“You’re late，” said the President of the Group severely. “Don’t let it happen again.”
Sarojini apologized and slid into her place between Jim Bokanovsky and Herbert Bakunin. The group was now complete， the solidarity circle perfect and without flaw. Man， woman， man， in a ring of endless alternation round the table. Twelve of them ready to be made one， waiting to come together， to be fused， to lose their twelve separate identities in a larger being.
The President stood up， made the sign of the T and， switching on the synthetic music， let loose the soft indefatigable beating of drums and a choir of instruments–near-wind and super-string–that plangently repeated and repeated the brief and unescapably haunting melody of the first Solidarity Hymn. Again， again–and it was not the ear that heard the pulsing rhythm， it was the midriff； the wail and clang of those recurring harmonies haunted， not the mind， but the yearning bowels of compassion.
The President made another sign of the T and sat down. The service had begun. The dedicated soma tablets were placed in the centre of the table. The loving cup of strawberry ice-cream soma was passed from hand to hand and， with the formula， “I drink to my annihilation，” twelve times quaffed. Then to the accompaniment of the synthetic orchestra the First Solidarity Hymn was sung.
“Ford， we are twelve； oh， make us one，
Like drops within the Social River， Oh， make us now together run
As swiftly as thy shining Flivver.”
Twelve yearning stanzas. And then the loving cup was passed a second time. “I drink to the Greater Being” was now the formula. All drank. Tirelessly the music played. The drums beat. The crying and clashing of the harmonies were an obsession in the melted bowels. The Second Solidarity Hymn was sung.
“Come， Greater Being， Social Friend，
Annihilating Twelve-in-One！ We long to die， for when we end，
Our larger life has but begun.”
Again twelve stanzas. By this time the soma had begun to work. Eyes shone， cheeks were flushed， the inner light of universal benevolence broke out on every face in happy， friendly smiles. Even Bernard felt himself a little melted. When Morgana Rothschild turned and beamed at him， he did his best to beam back. But the eyebrow， that black two-in-one–alas， it was still there； he couldn’t ignore it， couldn’t， however hard he tried. The melting hadn’t gone far enough. Perhaps if he had been sitting between Fifi and Joanna…For the third time the loving cup went round； “I drink to the imminence of His Coming，” said Morgana Rothschild， whose turn it happened to be to initiate the circular rite. Her tone was loud， exultant. She drank and passed the cup to Bernard. “I drink to the imminence of His Coming，” he repeated， with a sincere attempt to feel that the coming was imminent； but the eyebrow continued to haunt him， and the Coming， so far as he was concerned， was horribly remote. He drank and handed the cup to Clara Deterding. “It’ll be a failure again，” he said to himself. “I know it will.” But he went on doing his best to beam.
The loving cup had made its circuit. Lifting his hand， the President gave a signal； the chorus broke out into the third Solidarity Hymn.
“Feel how the Greater Being comes！
Rejoice and， in rejoicings， die！ Melt in the music of the drums！
For I am you and you are I.”
