## The Project Gutenberg eBook of The belt

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Title: The belt

Author: Wallace West

Release date: April 27, 2023 [eBook #70647]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Columbia Publications, Inc, 1951

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70647

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BELT ***

# The Belt

By Wallace West

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."

Jonathan picked up the envelope and ripped it open.

My beloved son: The words were penned in a Spencerian script which wavered ever so slightly.

I should have told you years ago all the things which you will find written here but I was afraid—afraid you would never return to take up the task which is now slipping through my fingers.

You were too young when you left here to understand the strangeness of this place. Suffice to say it killed your mother and is now killing me. It has a curse—placed on our line by Sir Jonathan Robertson. Now it is time for you to face that curse.

To start at the beginning: Sir Jonathan purchased this island from the Crown in 1709. He had discovered a vein of Lapis Lazuli here which was to make him and his descendants immensely wealthy. God pity them all.

The stone had to be worked just after it was taken from the mine and before it hardened by contact with the air, so Sir Jonathan conceived the idea of a colony and a factory right on the island.

He had served Queen Anne well, both as warrior and explorer, so he petitioned to purchase convicts from English prisons to work the mine and factory for him. That was a legitimate practice in those times. He received a shipment of some 200 prisoners of both sexes—ranging from debtors to murderers—and set them to work under an iron-fisted supervisor named Jock MacPherson.

At first MacPherson and the criminals fought each other bitterly. But the supervisor gave them better food than most had received in their lives, kept them working hard under heavy guard from dawn to dusk and did not hesitate to crop the ears and even the noses of incipient rebels. Within a few years they were behaving quite well....

Glancing up as he turned a page, Jonathan found that old Tom was standing behind him, reading over his shoulder.

"I said that would be all," he repeated firmly.

"Yes sir." The man hobbled out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Sir Jonathan seems to have been one of the first men to discover the meaning of efficiency and the value of division of labor; I have often read the journal in which he described the manner in which he made the prisoners work. Each man had a certain amount of labor of a special kind to perform. That is, one would blast the ore; another would bring it to the surface. A third would split the stone into workable pieces. A fourth would chip it into rough shape, and so on. Each did his own job ... and nothing else.

Thus each man and woman had a very definite and very circumscribed set of duties to perform each and every day. After twelve or fourteen hours of this, you can imagine that they had little time or energy to think of revolt; instead, they went to their mews and slept like animals.

Late in life, Sir Jonathan had a son whom he sent to Paris to be educated—since he had amassed a considerable fortune by this time. In France, Jonathan, 2nd. made the acquaintance of young Jean Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet de Lamarck and became fired with the latter's still-nebulous ideas about the effect of environment upon heredity.

The second Jonathan rushed back to New Patmos and started experimenting along lines suggested by Lamarck's theories. He set about arranging the marriages of his workers and managing practically every moment of their daily lives. Again there was some trouble, but the aging Jock MacPherson put it down; the details are bloody but they do not matter at this late date.

Sir Jonathan's grandson was able to dispense with guards. By this time the descendants of the original prisoners had lost all initiative. They plodded through their deadly, unvarying tasks and mated as they were told like the automatons they were fast becoming....

Jonathan laid down the letter and stared out at the clanking factory. So this was why? Even as a child he had felt the oppression of this place and had danced with joy on leaving it. The haggard, half-remembered face of his mother floated for a moment before his eyes. No wonder she had seemed always sad.

I was the first Robertson to rebel; I had been educated in England. On my way home I stopped at Jamaica, fell in love with your mother, and, without realizing the hell I was bringing her to, married her. Tom came with us to New Patmos.

I considered myself something of a radical in those days. When I learned of conditions here, I demanded that my father free our laborers. The old man—he died a few months later—merely shrugged and declared they were free. "Their unending toil and inbreeding have made machines of them," he said. "They are helpless now. You must care for them, my son; you can never leave the island again lest they starve."

God help me, I tried my best to make men and women of them again. You will see what success I had. Try in your turn if you must. It will be useless, but the effort will permit you to sleep. The centuries have dug a rut too deep for the creatures to climb out of. They have become like my canaries, poor....

The letter ended as if the hand of death had snatched pen from paper.

For a long while Jonathan stared at the pages. The singing of the canaries—their cages occupied every corner of the bedroom—finally roused him.

"Tom!"

"Yes sir." The old man had been waiting outside the door.

"Turn all these damned birds loose."

"But you'll need them to test the air in the mine, sir; the gas gets bad at times."

"Turn them loose, I said. At once!"

"Yes sir." Quietly the Negro went about the room, opening cage doors. Jonathan followed his progress with growing horror. The birds, so long accustomed to captivity, refused freedom. A few came to the opened wickets, then retreated to their perches with frightened twitters.

"Yes sir. Anything else, sir?"

"Go down to the pier and tell Captain Parker to hold the steamer; we're sailing with him."

"But you can't do that, sir. You can't leave your people to starve." The whites of Tom's eyes glistened. "You have to send out shipments of stones and the ultramarine dye which is made at the factory; you have to distribute the food which comes in."

"Nonsense. I'll pay them off and arrange for a boat to pick them up if they want to leave the island. They'll get along...."

"You'd better see your people first." The servant pointed toward the cowering birds. "You don't understand."

"All right, then, we'll visit the factory. Come on."

Morosely he strode along the weed-grown path across the valley. Midway they passed the little cemetery where six generations of Robertsons lay side by side.

"I had to bury him myself, sir." Tom indicated a fresh mound of earth. "They couldn't help ... couldn't perform a task they were not accustomed to."

In contrast with the neglect apparent on the rest of the island, the factory, despite its age and ugliness, hummed with life. As they approached they heard the clink of hammers and the endless flapping of belts. When his eyes became accustomed to the dimness inside, Jonathan saw long lines of men and women bent over ancient work benches, operating the lathes and forges of another age. They were doing all manner of complicated tasks in complete silence and with perfect concentration.

Not a worker glanced up as he entered. The tempo of toil continued without a break.

"Are they always like this, Tom?" The heir of all the Robertsons felt his hair prickle. "Don't they ever talk?"

"Always like this, sir. When the gong rings they have their lunch. The next time it sounds they march back to the barracks behind the factory. In the morning it calls them to work at daybreak."

"But what do they do when not working?"

"Eat. Sleep. Breed."

"And the children?"

"They work, too, as soon as they can walk. It is the law. They have obeyed it during eight or more generations, for their lives are short; it's too late to change them now."

Stopping before a time-blackened bench, Jonathan picked up a piece of blue stone upon which a gaunt, stoop-shouldered young man was working.

The effect was instant and frightful. With a snarl like a dog from which one has snatched a bone, the laborer grabbed the jewel from the intruder's hand. Then, as he again began working upon it, his face resumed its previous vacant stare.

"You see, sir?" Tom said. "It's the same way in the mine. They've lost most human characteristics. Notice that one's fingers ... long and slender for delicate work. And this one's ... so tough that he can reach right into his forge."

"Have they lost the power of speech?"

"Oh, no, sir. They talk when speech is necessary in carrying on their work. Just a few words, though—like parrots, I would say."

Oppressed by the horror of this silent, noisy place, they hurried along until they came to a better-lighted section of the building. There a number of women were engaged in etching delicate designs on almost-finished stones.

Dressed in black nun-like robes, they crouched over their work while their fingers flew. Most of them were ugly and toothless, with dirty hair and shoulders permanently rounded. A few retained some semblance of good looks and made pitiful attempts at adornment. One had a drooping flower in her unkempt locks; another wore an ancient ring. Those little things sent a thrill through the newcomer. Perhaps....

Glancing away from this group of harpies, Jonathan drew in his breath sharply. On a platform near a broken window sat a girl who was looking at him with a faint show of interest in her great, sad eyes. Her chestnut hair was held back with a strip of cloth. Her robe was clean. Her face reminded him of a Watteau shepherdess.

"Who is she?" he whispered.

"The women's overseer, sir; she talks a bit."

"Good morning," Jonathan addressed the girl hesitantly. "I'm the new master. Do you like to work here? Have you any complaints?" He stopped, feeling foolish, as he realized that, although she still was looking at him, her fragile fingers had not ceased their endless task of sorting little blue stones.

"Good morning, new master," she answered in a voice faint from disuse. "I do like to work here. I have no com-com...." She stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

"What is your name?"

"Jo."

"Jo what?"

"Jo." He detected a look of fright in her blue eyes.

"Would you like to leave this place?"

"No!" With a gasp Jo dropped her eyes and sorted with increased speed. Jonathan thought of the fluttering canaries.

"Would you like a holiday, Jo?"

She did not answer. Her face was white and her breath jerked.

"Better leave her alone, sir," said Tom; "you're getting her all upset. Come. I'll show you the mine."

Heartsick, he left the squat building through a tunnel which led into the cliff. Tom switched on a flashlight. By the aid of its beam they scrambled down a long incline. The air was thick and fetid; walls dripped with icy moisture.

"What's that?" A shuffling sound nearby had startled him.

"One of the miners, sir. They don't need lights any more; they seem to feel or smell the vein of Lapis. Look."

He swung the beam to disclose a naked horror which was scrabbling at the end of the tunnel with a crowbar. The creature snarled through a matted beard and hid its eyes.

"The miners only come out after dark," said Tom. "They've almost lost the power of sight.... Look out—here comes an ore car." He dragged his master aside as a loaded car trundled out of the depths and skittered by them on rickety wheels, pushed by another monster.

"Good Lord," panted Jonathan. "Get me out of here before I go mad. This air...."

"The pumps aren't adequate, sir. Your father was going to install new ones, but the miners don't seem bothered by the foulness. The air may become highly explosive. That's why we keep the canaries. But since the miners have stopped using lights...." He plodded toward the surface while his master walked close beside him as the one remaining link to the world of reality.

Back in the factory workroom at last, Jonathan mounted a bench and shouted for attention. The belt flapped idly on; work continued. Most of the laborers lifted their eyes to stare at him dully.

"I am the new master," he yelled above the din. "I do not want you to work on Sunday. Turn off the power; go home. Come back tomorrow. This is the day of rest."

The belt flapped on. Most of them gaped at him without comprehension. In a far corner, however, an ancient and twisted man rose from his bench and started fumbling at his leather apron. After half a minute another followed his example.

"No!" Another voice, harsh and sharp as a steel file, cut through the uproar. "Work! Work! Is the Law! God say: 'By the sweat of brow!' Work! Ye ken?" It was the cadaverous individual with the snarl who was speaking. "Ye ken?"

"We ken!" The answer came in chorus, like a ragged thunderclap. The old man refastened his apron and sat down again, as did his companion. The belt flapped.

"Now look here!" Jonathan was furious. "I said...."

"It's no use, sir." Tom was plucking at his sleeve. "You might as well talk to the Lapis, now; come."

At the mansion, Jonathan sat for hours with his head between his hands, trying to think of some way to lift the curse riveted on New Patmos. He waved away the luncheon which Tom brought, then, as the old man started to leave the room, called him back. "Who's in charge at the factory?" he asked.

"There's nobody rightly in charge, sir; things just run themselves."

"Who is that creature with the voice like a squeaky hinge, then?"

"Oh, that's Jock, the men's supervisor, sir. He only...."

"Jock!" Jonathan caught his breath. "Could that be Jock MacPherson, 7th, a descendant of Sir Jonathan's original overseer?"

"I wouldn't rightly know, sir. But you had better watch him; I think he is jealous."

"Jealous? Why, for heaven's sake?"

"Because you spoke to his girl Jo, sir. Under the law they will mate soon to produce another generation of supervisors."

"You're a doddering old fool!" Jonathan's face was pink.

"Yes, sir; anything else, sir?" Tom turned stiffly toward the door.

"I'm sorry, Tom. Forget it. I've got the jumps trying to figure out a way to shut down that factory. Can you suggest anything?"

"You might try locking the doors tonight, as soon as everybody is out. But...."

"Splendid idea; that might break the chain. We'll try it."

In the brief dusk after sunset they slipped across the valley and padlocked the sagging doors of the plant. Then, as they turned to retrace their steps, Jonathan grasped the old man's arm.

"I've been thinking," he said softly. "Perhaps I'm going at this thing backwards. Maybe I ought to try to win Jock over first. Do you know where he lives?"

"I ... I think so, sir. Only...."

"Lead the way, then."

In silence they skirted the factory and reached the mews which nestled under the cliffs like swallow's nests. The narrow alleys were unpaved and unlighted. Already the workers were asleep—or hiding perhaps? Jonathan wondered—in their warren of tumble-down shacks. In no time Tom became hopelessly lost in the maze. Once they asked directions of an old crone hunched on a mouldering doorstep ... and were answered with a gale of crazy laughter. All the while they felt hundreds of eyes watching their progress ... mocking at them.

"I'm sorry, sir," Tom shivered at last after several minutes of hammering on a door which he thought might be the right one had brought no response. "It's no use; we'll have to come back in daylight...."

"... when Jock will be at the factory. Perhaps I can talk to him there, though. Let's get out of this."

Jonathan rose from his tumbled bed before sunup and set himself to watch the factory through a pair of field glasses. Despite the fact that the gong had not sounded as usual, workers already were streaming toward the plant.

The first to reach the locked doors halted uncertainly but did not turn away. They merely stood there like a herd of cattle. The scene reminded Jonathan unpleasantly of pictures of mill lockouts he had seen in newspapers.

As he watched with bated breath, a surging movement began to grow in the crowd. Good Lord! They were pushing at the heavy doors. The iron-bound panels sagged. A splintering crash sounded across the valley. The doors were down! The silent mob started moving across the threshold. Again his effort to break the spell had failed.

"I told you, sir." Tom had entered the room unheard and was standing at his elbow like a venerable Satan. "Might as well make the best of it. Why don't you go back to England, marry a nice girl and bring her back here...." He dodged with amazing nimbleness as his master lashed out with a long arm. "I beg your pardon, sir. No offense meant; no offense at all."

"Very well. But stop calling me 'sir.' And get these damned canary cages out of here before I smash them."

"Yes, Mister Johnny." Tom moved about the room collecting the birds. "Don't take things so hard; you'll only become ill."

For several days Jonathan wandered about the island, avoiding the sight of the factory. But the place fascinated him and at last drew him back to its mildewed corridors. He might have been only a shadow so far as most of the workers were concerned. Jock remembered him, however, snarling softly and crouching more closely over his work when his master passed by. And the girl by the window even smiled faintly upon catching sight of him.

On one of his trips Jonathan found Jo outside the factory during lunch hours. "Would you take a walk with me?" he asked on the spur of the moment.

"Walk? Yes. Not far. Gong," she answered shyly.

He tried to take her arm but she flinched away. Nevertheless, when he turned away she wandered down the path beside him.

Using simple, childish words, he tried to get her interested in the flowers, trees and birds along the way and fancied that he was arousing her dormant mind. At any rate, she did not notice that they had left the factory far behind until the recall gong sounded.

Instantly she whirled and started running back down the path. In vain he pleaded with her not to hurry; that it didn't matter if she were late. She ran on without a word, as he had sometimes seen school-children run when they were tardy—her face puckered as though to cry; her breath short and rapid.

At the factory door he caught and tried to hold her. She beat her fists against his breast and sobbed in a wild burst of hysteria. At last she twisted herself free and rushed to her bench. There, almost magically, her face resumed its sweet serenity as she began her accustomed task.

Yet, as he returned home, defeated once more, Jonathan was certain that he had partially awakened her. And he also realized that, as Tom had hinted, he was falling under the spell of this strange, twisted being. She was almost an automaton, but not quite. No, she was more like a person obsessed by the craving for a narcotic. He clenched his fists and swore to save her, or to kill her in the attempt.

A week later, when he believed the effect of Jo's fright had worn off, Jonathan posted himself outside the mews and waited for the morning gong. He told himself that he was looking for Jock but his heart leaped when he saw the girl approaching before the harsh echoes of the "first bell" had died away. He noticed with delight that she was taking more care of her appearance than before. A white flower shone in her hair, which was newly washed and neatly combed. Her bare feet peeped from beneath the hem of a fresh robe.

"Good morning, Jo," he smiled at her. "Would you like to see my house? It's not far; you have time."

For a long moment she looked at him dubiously. Then her curiosity overcame her fear. "Ye-es. Jo will go. Must be back when second gong rings."

"Come then. We must hurry." This time she let him hold her arm. "I found some new flowers in the valley this morning," he continued softly.

"Flowers?" She glanced at him under fringed lashes.

"Yes.... Like the one you wear in your hair. What is it called?"

"It called.... It called...." She shook her head at last. "Jo ... forget."

"And this tree, all covered with blossoms. What is its name?"

"Jo think it called mim ... mimo ... mimosa?"

"Right. Well, here's the house. Come right in."

"Oh no. Law say...."

"The devil with the law. It's my house; come in."

After repeated urgings she crept through the big door. Her work completely forgotten for once, she marvelled at the lacy curtains, the waxed floors which made walking so difficult and the paintings on the walls.

While she was testing the softness of the big bed upstairs with open-mouthed astonishment, Jonathan slipped out of the room and locked the door.

Tom, his white head bobbing with worry, was watching him from the landing. "I wouldn't have done it, Mister Johnny," he muttered. "It would be better for you to get a girl in England or the States...."

"Damn you, shut your mouth," his master exploded. "There's no danger; she can't get out. This may jolt her out of her rut. Then she can help the others."

He was interrupted by the snarling clangor of the second gong, followed by a wild hammering on the upstairs door.

"You'd better let her out," Tom's head was shaking worse than before. "I know! Your father...."

A terrified scream cut him short.

Jonathan went up the stairs three at a time. Tearing open the door, he plunged inside, then halted, stunned. The room was empty!

But not quite! Jo's strained white hands were clinging to the window sill.

"Wait! Jo!" he shouted. "Hold on. I'm coming!"

Instead of waiting, she relaxed her hold. He reached the window to see her crash into the iron porch railing twenty feet below.

Jonathan watched in horror as the girl fell....

"She's dead, Tom." He looked up from Jo's still face a few minutes later. "Fractured her skull." His voice was matter-of-fact, but there was death in his heart. Now that it was too late, he realized that he had loved her. "Poor child. I treated her very badly, you know."

"I told you so, Mister Johnny. You can't do anything. They live in darkness." Suddenly losing his English stoicism, Tom dropped to his knees, threw his arms around his master's knees and sobbed: "Oh, Mister Johnny. I'm afraid!"

"There, there, Tom." Although his heart was breaking, it warmed to this display of humanness in the old man. "We'll lick this thing yet. Tell you what.... Tonight we'll go to the factory, barricade the doors and windows ... keep the fools out until they come to their senses."

"It won't be any use." Tom rose slowly, his fat old face drawn in stern lines. "Nevertheless, we'll fight it out together, if you wish."

"Very well, Tom." Jonathan stretched out his hand and grasped that of the other over the body of the dead girl. "Together it is, then."

That night, after they had said a simple prayer over Jo's grave, they hurried to the plant, repaired the doors and spent long hours barricading them and the windows from within. Often they felt eyes upon them, but no one interfered with their work. Dawn was breaking by the time they finished.

The morning gong soon was followed by scuffling sounds of the gathering crowd outside. Like a pack of hounds, the workers sniffed around the building, trying to find an entrance. When this was unsuccessful, there was a long silence. Then, when the pair inside had begun to take hope, they heard the crash of some heavy weapon against the doors.

"They're thinking a bit, anyway," said Jonathan; "they've hit on the idea of using a log for a battering ram."

The hammering gathered force and rhythm, and began to be accompanied by a grunting chant which sounded oddly familiar.

"They're remembering something else." Tom held his jaw to stop his chattering teeth. "I haven't heard them sing for a score of years."

"What is it they're chanting?"

"It's Luther's hymn, A Mighty Fortress, Mister Johnny."

"Rather appropriate, what? We'd better get some more work benches against those doors. They're sagging."

As the unintelligible hymn reached its climax the doors caved inward despite Jonathan's best efforts. The benches were pushed aside. The mob poured in.

It might have ended there, with the creatures going quietly to work, except for the fact that the whole place was in disorder. For a moment the workers milled sullenly about, looking for their accustomed tools. Then Jock spotted the two intruders.

"He!" shouted the man-monster, pointing wildly and shaking his matted hair. "He kill Jo. He shut doors. He laugh at law."

The ragged men and women shifted their bare feet uncertainly. For a few seconds Jock seemed at a loss, groping for words. Then a look of cunning overspread his hideous face.

"He shut doors again," yelled the mad overseer. "He burn down plant. We no can work. Kill him. Kill! Kill!"

This time Jock got the response he had been seeking. The workers—more than 500 of them—surged forward, snarling deep in their throats.

Jonathan took a step toward the mob but Tom pulled him back. "Wait, Mister Johnny. They know me. If anybody can check them, I can."

The old man clambered onto one of the few upright benches and shouted for silence. For a moment he got it. Then Jock hurled a chisel. The blade slashed Tom's cheek. At the sight of blood the crowd went wild and charged.

Before Jonathan could make a move to save him, Tom was dragged from the bench. A scream rang out. A black arm reached upward. Then there was only a sound such as pigs make at a trough.

Life, which before had seemed so bitter and worthless, became suddenly sweet to Jonathan. The factory had turned into a howling madhouse, but behind him was the entrance to the mine! He leaped through it and sprinted down the black tunnel.

When he recovered from his hysteria, Jonathan found himself hopelessly lost in a maze of parallels. Controlling his nerves by sheer will power, he crouched in the pitch darkness and waited. Would they forget him? The blood-lust he had seen on those half-animal faces did not reassure him.

He listened ... and could hear nothing but the blood drumming in his ears. Now that it was too late, he realized that he had gone about the whole thing clumsily ... in the outmoded swashbuckling, Empire building fashion. He had tried to do, in a few weeks, a job which required years ... decades ... perhaps a lifetime. He should have started by winning Jock's confidence ... or, if that couldn't be done, he should have killed the monster outright. Without Jock's influence the others might well return to sanity in a short time.

Might what? He shook his head to clear his wandering thoughts. The heavy, gaseous air was choking him. His mouth had become dry and gluey. Red spots danced before his eyes.

What was that? He leaped to his feet, remembering that the miners needed light. A pebble, dislodged by his movement, rattled down the wall with a sound like thunder. Then he laughed shakily. The sound he had heard was the far distant flapping of the factory belt. They had turned on the machinery.

A long time later he thought he heard another sound. Nearer this time! He pressed his knuckles against his lips to keep from screaming. He turned to run. But where? The sound had come again. On the other side now, it seemed.

He picked up a piece of rock and hurled it with all his force.

Nothing! Or was that the echo of a maniac laugh.

"Get away, you hairy devil," he yelled. "I have a gun here."

No answer. Yet the blackness was peopled with horrors. Was he going crazy? He mustn't give 'way. Britishers have been in more ticklish spots than his and come out on top; England expects every man to ... to pull himself together in an emergency. There must be some way out of this maze.

"Tom," he whispered, "hand me your flashlight."

"Sorry, Mister Johnny," the answer came; "it was broken when they killed me."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot you were dead, Tom. Can you help me out of this mess?"

"Sorry, Mister Johnny. But dying isn't so bad though, honestly—"

"England expects ... England expects...." Jonathan Robertson 7th was fighting hard to retain his sanity.

There came a chuckling sound ... not ten feet away now.

Light! Light! His shaking hands sought his pockets. Ah! Matches!

"Mind the gas, Mister Johnny." Good old Tom.... A shame he's dead.

"I'll have to chance it!" His voice was quite calm now.

The match scratched against the sandpaper.

"The devil! It didn't light. Steady now.... (Keep your paws off me just a moment longer, you scum).... One.... Two.... Three!"

This time the flame caught, flickered, was reflected for a split second in the eyes of a gaunt, stoop-shouldered young man at the other side of the tunnel, then burst into the searing glory of a thousand suns....

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