Science？ The Savage frowned. He knew the word. But what it exactly signified he could not say. Shakespeare and the old men of the pueblo had never mentioned science， and from Linda he had only gathered the vaguest hints： science was something you made helicopters with， some thing that caused you to laugh at the Corn Dances， something that prevented you from being wrinkled and losing your teeth. He made a desperate effort to take the Controller’s meaning.
“Yes，” Mustapha Mond was saying， “that’s another item in the cost of stability. It isn’t only art that’s incompatible with happiness； it’s also science. Science is dangerous； we have to keep it most carefully chained and muzzled.”
“What？” said Helmholtz， in astonishment. “But we’re always saying that science is everything. It’s a hypnop？dic platitude.”
“Three times a week between thirteen and seventeen，” put in Bemard.
“And all the science propaganda we do at the College…”
“Yes； but what sort of science？” asked Mustapha Mond sarcastically. “You’ve had no scientific training， so you can’t judge. I was a pretty good physicist in my time. Too good–good enough to realize that all our science is just a cookery book， with an orthodox theory of cooking that nobody’s allowed to question， and a list of recipes that mustn’t be added to except by special permission from the head cook. I’m the head cook now. But I was an inquisitive young scullion once. I started doing a bit of cooking on my own. Unorthodox cooking， illicit cooking. A bit of real science， in fact.” He was silent.
“What happened？” asked Helmholtz Watson.
The Controller sighed. “Very nearly what’s going to happen to you young men. I was on the point of being sent to an island.”
The words galvanized Bernard into violent and unseemly activity. “Send me to an island？” He jumped up， ran across the room， and stood gesticulating in front of the Controller. “You can’t send me. I haven’t done anything. lt was the others. I swear it was the others.” He pointed accusingly to Helmholtz and the Savage. “Oh， please don’t send me to Iceland. I promise I’ll do what I ought to do. Give me another chance. Please give me another chance.” The tears began to flow. “I tell you， it’s their fault，” he sobbed. “And not to Iceland. Oh please， your fordship， please…” And in a paroxysm of abjection he threw himself on his knees before the Controller. Mustapha Mond tried to make him get up； but Bernard persisted in his grovelling； the stream of words poured out inexhaustibly. In the end the Controller had to ring for his fourth secretary.
“Bring three men，” he ordered， “and take Mr. Marx into a bedroom. Give him a good soma vaporization and then put him to bed and leave him.”
The fourth secretary went out and returned with three green-uniformed twin footmen. Still shouting and sobbing. Bernard was carried out.
“One would think he was going to have his throat cut，” said the Controller， as the door closed. “Whereas， if he had the smallest sense， he’d understand that his punishment is really a reward. He’s being sent to an island. That’s to say， he’s being sent to a place where he’ll meet the most interesting set of men and women to be found anywhere in the world. All the people who， for one reason or another， have got too self-consciously individual to fit into community-life. All the people who aren’t satisfied with orthodoxy， who’ve got independent ideas of their own. Every one， in a word， who’s any one. I almost envy you， Mr. Watson.”
Helmholtz laughed. “Then why aren’t you on an island yourself？”
