The belt

Scientific theories are never "true or "false"; they are "good" or "bad" in various degrees, and the criterion is one of usefulness--predictability and manipulation to (seeming) advantage. Theories are often discarded, simply because evidence may be insufficient for one, where it seems to sustain another--or where another can account for observed phenomena more simply. Take Lamarck's theories on the effect of environment on heredity; so far, the evidence seems to put this in the "bad" classification. But if certain experiments could be made....

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science Fiction Quarterly November 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

No one foresaw what would come of the social experiment Jonathan Robertson started early in the 18th Century, on this little island. And Jonathan the 7th found the terrible fruit of what had been sown....

"Rum port to come home to, if I may say so, sir." The captain spat over the rail into the blue waters.

"Rum?" Jonathan Robertson, 7th, continued to study the cliffs which he had not seen for twenty years. "Why?"

"Oh, I dunno. Gives me the jumps every time I touch here. Maybe it's the name--New Patmos."

"Yes, Saint John did have a rough time when he was exiled on the original Isle of Patmos, didn't he?"

"And then there's that gang on the dock...."

"It's just Old Tom and some of my father's workmen."

"I know." The captain relit his pipe. "But any other Caribbean port I stop at, the dock workers are singing and skylarking. Those fellows never say a word. Rum, I call it! Some of my crew think they're jumbies ... won't set foot on shore here."

"Jumbies are one thing I can assure you they're not, captain," Jonathan chuckled. "They're just plain workmen--and English to boot. As for the Old Tom, he carried me on his shoulders when I was a kid."

"Cheerio, Tom," he continued after the lines had been made fast and the ebony-colored ancient was clambering over the rail. "Where's father?"

"I'm sorry, sir." The answer came in the clipped British accent of the West Indies. "Your father is dead, sir, these two weeks."

"Dead!" A picture of the sixth Jonathan Robertson, austere in his white linens, flashed through Jonathan's mind. It seemed impossible that he was no longer striding on his daily rounds to the factory and mine.

"Yes sir. Perhaps we'd better go up to the house at once, sir, if you don't mind. I'll tell the men to follow with the cargo." Tom turned to the leaden-faced, overall-clad trio on the pier and shouted; "Men! Take cargo to store-house. Bill! Ye ken?"

"Yah!" grunted the man on the left.

"Fred! Ye ken? Cargo to store-house?"

"Yah!" The tone was identical.

"Dick! Ye ken?"

"Yah!"

Tom picked up Jonathan's bags and led the way up a rocky path which eventually rounded a cliff which had hidden the Robertson mansion.

It was a pleasant enough place although sadly in need of paint. A grove of palm trees half-concealed the ravages which time had made on its tall pillars. The house had an atmosphere of peace and quiet, but the effect was spoiled by an ugly factory which clung to the cliffside on the other side of the valley. Although it was Sunday, Jonathan noticed that smoke was belching from the factory chimney.

"I know it's ungodly, this working on the Sabbath, sir," said Tom as his new master stared, "but They will work all the time. Even during the funeral...." He broke off and hobbled forward to swing the door of the mansion open.

Everything was orderly inside. Lattices were drawn to keep out the equatorial sun; teakwood floors gleamed; dozens of canaries twittered in their cages near the windows.

"This way, sir."

Jonathan climbed a winding staircase which seemed smaller than he remembered it and was ushered into the master bedroom. This was a cool, high-ceilinged chamber with many long windows looking out across the valley toward the crouching factory.

"Your father wished you to stay here, sir. He said it would give you the feel of the place. On the desk there you'll find the letter he was writing to you just before he died."

"Thank you, Tom. That will be all for the present."