From his carefully constructed hide in the wood three hundred metres away， Darwin Bonaparte， the Feely Corporation’s most expert big game photographer had watched the whole proceedings. Patience and skill had been rewarded. He had spent three days sitting inside the bole of an artificial oak tree， three nights crawling on his belly through the heather， hiding microphones in gorse bushes， burying wires in the soft grey sand. Seventy-two hours of profound discomfort. But now the great moment had come–the greatest， Darwin Bonaparte had time to reflect， as he moved among his instruments， the greatest since his taking of the famous all-howling stereoscopic feely of the gorillas’ wedding. “Splendid，” he said to himself， as the Savage started his astonishing performance. “Splendid！” He kept his telescopic cameras carefully aimed–glued to their moving objective； clapped on a higher power to get a close-up of the frantic and distorted face （admirable！）； switched over， for half a minute， to slow motion （an exquisitely comical effect， he promised himself）； listened in， meanwhile， to the blows， the groans， the wild and raving words that were being recorded on the sound-track at the edge of his film， tried the effect of a little amplification （yes， that was decidedly better）； was delighted to hear， in a momentary lull， the shrill singing of a lark； wished the Savage would turn round so that he could get a good close-up of the blood on his back–and almost instantly （what astonishing luck！） the accommodating fellow did turn round， and he was able to take a perfect close-up.
“Well， that was grand！” he said to himself when it was all over. “Really grand！” He mopped his face. When they had put in the feely effects at the studio， it would be a wonderful film. Almost as good， thought Darwin Bonaparte， as the Sperm Whale’s Love-Life–and that， by Ford， was saying a good deal！
Twelve days later The Savage of Surrey had been released and could be seen， heard and felt in every first-class feely-palace in Western Europe.
The effect of Darwin Bonaparte’s film was immediate and enormous. On the afternoon which followed the evening of its release John’s rustic solitude was suddenly broken by the arrival overhead of a great swarm of helicopters.
He was digging in his garden–digging， too， in his own mind， laboriously turning up the substance of his thought. Death–and he drove in his spade once， and again， and yet again. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. A convincing thunder rumbled through the words. He lifted another spadeful of earth. Why had Linda died？ Why had she been allowed to become gradually less than human and at last…He shuddered. A good kissing carrion. He planted his foot on his spade and stamped it fiercely into the tough ground. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods； they kill us for their sport. Thunder again； words that proclaimed themselves true–truer somehow than truth itself. And yet that same Gloucester had called them ever-gentle gods. Besides， thy best of rest is sleep and that thou oft provok’st； yet grossly fear’st thy death which is no more. No more than sleep. Sleep. Perchance to dream. His spade struck against a stone； he stooped to pick it up. For in that sleep of death， what dreams？…
A humming overhead had become a roar； and suddenly he was in shadow， there was something between the sun and him. He looked up， startled， from his digging， from his thoughts； looked up in a dazzled bewilderment， his mind still wandering in that other world of truer-than-truth， still focused on the immensities of death and deity； looked up and saw， close above him， the swarm of hovering machines. Like locusts they came， hung poised， descended all around him on the heather. And from out of the bellies of these giant grasshoppers stepped men in white viscose-flannels， women （for the weather was hot） in acetate-shantung pyjamas or velveteen shorts and sleeveless， half-unzippered singlets–one couple from each. In a few minutes there were dozens of them， standing in a wide circle round the lighthouse， staring， laughing， clicking their cameras， throwing （as to an ape） peanuts， packets of sex-hormone chewing-gum， pan-glanduar petite beurres. And every moment–for across the Hog’s Back the stream of traffic now flowed unceasingly–their numbers increased. As in a nightmare， the dozens became scores， the scores hundreds.
The Savage had retreated towards cover， and now， in the posture of an animal at bay， stood with his back to the wall of the lighthouse， staring from face to face in speechless horror， like a man out of his senses.
From this stupor he was aroused to a more immediate sense of reality by the impact on his cheek of a well-aimed packet of chewing-gum. A shock of startling pain–and he was broad awake， awake and fiercely angry.
“Go away！” he shouted.
The ape had spoken； there was a burst of laughter and hand-clapping. “Good old Savage！ Hurrah， hurrah！” And through the babel he heard cries of： “Whip， whip， the whip！”
Acting on the word’s suggestion， he seized the bunch of knotted cords from its nail behind the door and shook it at his tormentors.
There was a yell of ironical applause.
