The first colonists were entirely free, then, of any sort of work-responsibility. For a while they went back to work in their laboratories or in the university—inventing, exploring, accumulating their store of knowledge. In imperceptible stages, however, their interest lagged, their production came to a halt again. This time they had no excuse, no scapegoat.
We can assume that some of them faced the truth squarely and honestly, yet they had chosen Firth's world and there was no way to turn back. We find only one actual hint of their despondency, in a diary page written by an unknown woman.
Karl stayed home again to-day. He has nearly finished the design for his machine, but he has no more enthusiasm to complete it. I know how he feels; I can't go on with my painting, either. We have no purpose, no goal to achieve. We sit isolated in space, counting over the wealth of our talent and ability; but we can make no use of it. I wish I knew how many of the others think as I do, but I'm afraid to ask.
The key to understanding them, is that last sentence. Perhaps they all felt her disillusionment, but they had to pretend. Firth's world couldn't be at fault. If they were dissatisfied, it was because of a failure within themselves. At all costs, the flaw had to be hidden from their neighbors.
Their first labor trouble was a welcome interlude in the creeping boredom. The docile labor battalion suddenly discovered they were being overworked. Just what they could have done in Firth's world with shorter hours, no one knows. They staged a spotty, amateurish strike; speakers made reference to the labor laws applicable on the Earth and demanded better pay. To what end, it's hard for us to say. If the first colonists had turned over all their wealth, the workers would have had no more use for it.
John Firth was unusually alarmed by the threatened strike. He reacted with excessive violence and the other colonists followed his lead. Three of the leaders of the uprising were executed; others were brutally whipped. The Outlaw Pit was built then. Thereafter, at the first hint of any dissatisfaction, workers were condemned to it.
The violence taught the workers resentment. Silently, sullenly they passed on their hatred to their children. The aristocracy created the revolution, and nurtured it; for it would have made no real difference if they had surrendered entirely to the strikers' demands.
The children of the first colonists made no pretense of using Firth's world to advance knowledge, invention or art. They were hedonists, bred to luxury, supported by slaves.
The slaves, for their part, felt no emotion but hatred. From their parents they learned that the aristocracy had violated the labor law. The children knew nothing about the law or the distant Earth where it applied, but it was held in deep and sacred reverence.
The laboratories and the university stood empty; only the recreation cavern held any interest for the new aristocracy. A change took place among the slaves too. Their parents had been hand-picked morons. But neither brilliant achievement nor the moronic mind is hereditary. Most of the workers' children had an average intelligence; one or two would have been classified as geniuses. To their hatred the second generation joined intelligence, and Firth's world was ready to blow apart.