Diane Sapit - Brave New World - Chapter Five

Bottle of mine, why was I ever decanted?

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.

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 une

Flood- lighted, its three
hundred and twenty metres of white Carrara-surrogate gleamed with a snowy
incandescence over Ludgate Hill; at each of the four corners of its helicopter
platform an immense T shone crimson against the night, and from the mouths
of twenty-four vast golden trumpets rumbled a solemn synthetic music.

But
she was really too pneumatic.

The President switched off the music and, with the final note of the final stanza,
there was absolute silence-the silence of stretched expectancy, quivering and
creeping with a galvanic life.