By Wallace West
Scientific theories are never "true or "false"; they are"good" or "bad" in various degrees, and the criterion isone of usefulness—predictability and manipulation to(seeming) advantage. Theories are often discarded, simplybecause evidence may be insufficient for one, where itseems to sustain another—or where another can accountfor observed phenomena more simply. Take Lamarck'stheories on the effect of environment on heredity; sofar, 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 JonathanRobertson started early in the 18th Century, on this little island. AndJonathan 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 spatover the rail into the blue waters.
"Rum?" Jonathan Robertson, 7th, continued to study the cliffs which hehad not seen for twenty years. "Why?"
"Oh, I dunno. Gives me the jumps every time I touch here. Maybe it'sthe name—New Patmos."
"Yes, Saint John did have a rough time when he was exiled on theoriginal 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 Istop at, the dock workers are singing and skylarking. Those fellowsnever say a word. Rum, I call it! Some of my crew think they'rejumbies ... won't set foot on shore here."
"Jumbies are one thing I can assure you they're not, captain," Jonathanchuckled. "They're just plain workmen—and English to boot. As for theOld Tom, he carried me on his shoulders when I was a kid."
"Cheerio, Tom," he continued after the lines had been made fast and theebony-colored ancient was clambering over the rail. "Where's father?"
"I'm sorry, sir." The answer came in the clipped British accent of theWest Indies. "Your father is dead, sir, these two weeks."
"Dead!" A picture of the sixth Jonathan Robertson, austere in his whitelinens, flashed through Jonathan's mind. It seemed impossible that hewas 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 youdon't mind. I'll tell the men to follow with the cargo." Tom turned tothe leaden-faced, overall-clad trio on the pier and shouted; "Men! Takecargo 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 whicheventually rounded a cliff which had hidden the Robertson mansion.
It was a pleasant enough place although sadly in need of paint. A groveof palm trees half-concealed the ravages which time had made on itstall pillars. The house had an atmosphere of peace and quiet, but theeffect was spoiled by an ugly factory which clung to the cliffside onthe other side of the valley. Although it was Sunday, Jonathan noticedthat smoke was belching from the factory chimney.
"I know it's ungodly, this working on the Sabbath, sir," said Tom ashis new master stared, "but They will work all the time. Even duringthe funeral...." He broke off and hobbled forward to swing the door ofthe mans