“Because， finally， I preferred this，” the Controller answered. “I was given the choice： to be sent to an island， where I could have got on with my pure science， or to be taken on to the Controllers’ Council with the prospect of succeeding in due course to an actual Controllership. I chose this and let the science go.” After a little silence， “Sometimes，” he added， “I rather regret the science. Happiness is a hard master–particularly other people’s happiness. A much harder master， if one isn’t conditioned to accept it unquestioningly， than truth.” He sighed， fell silent again， then continued in a brisker tone， “Well， duty’s duty. One can’t consult one’s own preference. I’m interested in truth， I like science. But truth’s a menace， science is a public danger. As dangerous as it’s been beneficent. It has given us the stablest equilibrium in history. China’s was hopelessly insecure by comparison； even the primitive matriarchies weren’t steadier than we are. Thanks， l repeat， to science. But we can’t allow science to undo its own good work. That’s why we so carefully limit the scope of its researches–that’s why I almost got sent to an island. We don’t allow it to deal with any but the most immediate problems of the moment. All other enquiries are most sedulously discouraged. It’s curious.”
He went on after a little pause， “to read what people in the time of Our Ford used to write about scientific progress. They seemed to have imagined that it could be allowed to go on indefinitely， regardless of everything else. Knowledge was the highest good， truth the supreme value； all the rest was secondary and subordinate. True， ideas were beginning to change even then. Our Ford himself did a great deal to shift the emphasis from truth and beauty to comfort and happiness. Mass production demanded the shift. Universal happiness keeps the wheels steadily turning； truth and beauty can’t. And， of course， whenever the masses seized political power， then it was happiness rather than truth and beauty that mattered. Still， in spite of everything， unrestricted scientific research was still permitted. People still went on talking about truth and beauty as though they were the sovereign goods. Right up to the time of the Nine Years’ War. That made them change their tune all right. What’s the point of truth or beauty or knowledge when the anthrax bombs are popping all around you？ That was when science first began to be controlled–after the Nine Years’ War. People were ready to have even their appetites controlled then. Anything for a quiet life. We’ve gone on controlling ever since. It hasn’t been very good for truth， of course. But it’s been very good for happiness. One can’t have something for nothing. Happiness has got to be paid for. You’re paying for it， Mr. Watson–paying because you happen to be too much interested in beauty. I was too much interested in truth； I paid too.”
“But you didn’t go to an island，” said the Savage， breaking a long silence.
The Controller smiled. “That’s how I paid. By choosing to serve happiness. Other people’s–not mine. It’s lucky，” he added， after a pause， “that there are such a lot of islands in the world. I don’t know what we should do without them. Put you all in the lethal chamber， I suppose. By the way， Mr. Watson， would you like a tropical climate？ The Marquesas， for example； or Samoa？ Or something rather more bracing？”
Helmholtz rose from his pneumatic chair. “I should like a thoroughly bad climate，” he answered. “I believe one would write better if the climate were bad. If there were a lot of wind and storms， for example…”
The Controller nodded his approbation. “I like your spirit， Mr. Watson. I like it very much indeed. As much as I officially disapprove of it.” He smiled. “What about the Falkland Islands？”
“Yes， I think that will do，” Helmholtz answered. “And now， if you don’t mind， I’ll go and see how poor Bernard’s getting on.”
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