The Pool of Fire (The Tripods)

by John Christopher

  The crowd’s frenzy grew with the waiting. Men stood on platforms and took bets—as to how long the Hunt would last, how far the man would get. This seemed absurd to me at first, for I did not see how he could get any distance at all. But one of the others in the room explained. The man was not sent out on foot, but on horseback. The Tripod could easily outdistance the horse, of course, but a horseman, getting what advantage he could from the terrain, might evade being taken for as long as a quarter of an hour.

  I asked if anyone ever escaped. My companion shook his head. It was theoretically possible: there was a rule that beyond the river there was no pursuit. But it had never happened, in all the years that the Hunt had been held.

  Suddenly the crowd hushed. I saw that a saddled horse was being led into the field above which the Tripod loomed. Men in gray uniforms brought along another man, dressed in white. I stared through the glasses and saw that he was a tall raw-boned man, about thirty, who looked lost and bewildered. He was helped to mount the horse, and sat there, with the uniformed men holding the stirrups on either side. The hush deepened. Into it came the tolling of the bell of the church clock, as it struck the hour of nine. On the last stroke they stood back, slapping the horse’s flank. The horse bounded forward, and the crowd’s voice rose in frenzy.

  He rode down the slope toward the distant silver gleam of the river. He had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile before the Tripod moved. A huge metal foot uprooted itself, arced through the sky, and was followed by another. It was not hurrying particularly. I thought of the man on horseback, and felt his fear rise as bile in my own mouth. I looked from the scene to the faces around me. Fritz’s was impassive, as usual, intent and observing. The others . . . they nauseated me, I think, more than what was taking place outside.

  It did not last long. The Tripod got him as he galloped across the bare brown slope of a vineyard. A tentacle came down and picked him from the horse with the neatness and sureness of a girl threading a needle. Another cry rose from those who watched. The tentacle held him, a struggling doll. And then a second tentacle . . .

  My stomach heaving, I scrambled to my feet, and ran from the room.

  The atmosphere was different when I returned, the feverishness having been replaced by a sort of relaxation. They were drinking wine and talking about the Hunt. He had been a poor specimen, they decided. One, who appeared to be a senior servant from the estate of a Count who had a castle near by, had lost money on him and was indignant about it. My reappearance was greeted with a few mocking remarks and some laughter. They told me I was a weak-bellied foreigner, and urged me to have a liter of wine to steady my nerves. Outside, the same relaxation—a sense almost of repletion—could be observed in the crowd. Bets were being paid off, and there was a brisk trade in hot pasties and sweetmeats. The Tripod, I noticed, had gone back to its original position in the field.

  Gradually, as the hour ticked by, tension built up once more. At ten o’clock, the ceremony repeated itself, with the same quickening of excitement in those about us, the same roar of joy and approval as the Hunt began. The second victim gave them better sport. He rode fast and well, and for a time avoided the Tripod’s tentacle by riding under the cover of trees. When he broke into the open again, I wanted to shout to him to stay where he was. But it would have done no good, as he must have known: the Tripod could have plucked the trees out from around him. He was making for the river, and I saw that there was another copse perhaps half a mile further on. Before he got there, the tentacle swept down. The first time he dodged it, swerving his horse at just the right moment so that the rope of metal flailed down and hit the ground beside him. He had a chance, I thought, of reaching his objective, and the river was not so very much further on. But the Tripod’s second attempt was better aimed. He was plucked from the saddle and his body pulled apart, as the first man’s had been. In a sudden hush, his cries of agony came thinly to us through the bright autumnal air.

  I did not come back after that killing. There were limits to what I could stand, even in the cause of duty. Fritz stuck it out, but he looked grim when I saw him later and was even more taciturn than usual.

  • • •

  A few weeks later, we reached the caves. Their gloomy depths were strangely attractive, a haven from the world through which we had journeyed for almost a year. The walls of rock enfolded us, and the lamps flickered warmly. More important, though, was the release from the strain of mixing with and dealing with the Capped. Here we conversed with free men like ourselves.

  For three days we were idle, apart from the ordinary duties in which all shared. Then we had our orders, from the local Commander, a German whose name was Otto. We were to report, in two days’ time, at a place specified only as a point on a map reference. Otto himself did not know why.

  Three

  The Green Man on the Green Horse

  It took us two full days, on horseback, riding hard for the most part. Winter was closing in again fast, the days shortening, a long fine spell of St. Luke’s summer breaking up into cold unsettled weather coming from the west. For the whole of one morning we rode with sleet and sharp rain driving into our faces. We slept the first night in a small inn, but as the second day drew to its close we were in wild deserted country, with sheep cropping thin grass and not even a sign of a shepherd, or a shepherd’s hut.

  We were, we knew, near the end of our journey. At the top of a slope we reined in our horses and looked down to the sea, a long line beating against an unpromising rocky coast. All empty, as the land was. Except . . . Away to the north, on the very edge of visibility, something like a squat finger pointing upward. I spoke to Fritz, and he nodded, and we rode for it.

  As we got nearer, we could see that it was the ruin of a castle, set on a promontory of rock. Nearer still, we could make out that there had been a small harbor on the far side and that there were ruins there, too, though on a more modest scale. Fishermen’s cottages, most likely. It would have been a fishing village once, but was now abandoned. We saw no indication of life, either there or in the castle, which loomed harsh and black against the deepening gray sky. A broken, potholed road led up to a gateway from which, on one side, hung the shattered remnants of a wooden gate barred with iron. Riding through, we found ourselves in a courtyard.

  It was as empty and lifeless as everything else, but we dismounted, and tied our horses to an iron ring that had, perhaps, been used for that very purpose a thousand years before. It was very dark. If we had got our map reference wrong, we were going to have to put off our search until morning. But I could not believe we had erred. From behind an embrasure, I saw a dim flicker of light, and touched Fritz’s arm, pointing. It disappeared, and was visible again farther along the wall. I could just make out that there was a door and that the light was moving in that direction. We went toward it, and reached it as a figure, carrying a lamp, turned a corner in the corridor within. He held the lamp higher, shining it in our faces.

  “You’re a bit late,” he said. “We’d given you up for today.”

  I went forward with a laugh. I still could not see his face, but I knew well enough whose voice it was: Beanpole’s.

  • • •

  Certain rooms (those facing seaward, for the most part) and a section of the dungeons had been refurbished and made habitable. We were given a good hot supper, of rich stew, followed by home-baked bread and a French cheese, wheel-shaped, dusted white outside, creamy yellow within, strong-tasting and satisfying. There was hot water to wash ourselves, and beds had been made up in one of the spare rooms: there were even sheets. We slept well, lulled by the roar and rumble of the sea breaking on the rocks, and awoke refreshed. At breakfast, others were present; I recognized two or three faces. Someone else who was familiar came in while we were eating. Julius hobbled across the room toward us, smiling.

  “Welcome, Fritz. And Will. It’s good to see you back with us.”

  We had asked questions of Beanpole, and received evasive answers. All would be expla
ined in the morning, he told us. And after breakfast we went, with Julius and Beanpole and half a dozen others, to a huge room on the castle’s first floor. There was a great gaping window looking out to sea, across which a frame of wood and glass had been fastened, and an enormous fireplace in which wood crackled and burned. We sat down on benches, behind a long, rough-hewn table, in no particular order. Julius spoke to us.

  “I shall satisfy the curiosity of Will and Fritz first,” he said. “The rest of you must bear with me.” He looked at us. “This is one of several places at which research into ways of defeating the Masters is being carried out. Many ideas have been put forward, some of them ingenious. But before considering any seriously we have to overcome our major problem, which is that we still, despite the report you two made, know so little about our enemy.”

  He paused for a moment. “A second group was sent north to the Games last summer. Only one qualified to be taken into the City. We have heard nothing more of him. He may yet escape but we cannot depend on that. In any case, it is doubtful that he would bring us the information we want. Because what we really need, we have decided, is one of the Masters in our hands, alive for preference, so that we can study him.”

  My face may have shown skepticism; I have always heard it shows too much. At any rate, Julius said, “Yes, Will, an impossible requirement, one would think. But perhaps not quite impossible. This is why you two have been called in to help us. You have actually seen the inside of a Tripod, when you were being taken to the City. You have, it is true, described it to us already, and fully. But if we are going to capture a Master, we must get him out from the metal stronghold in which he strides about our lands. And for that the smallest recollection which you may be able to dredge from your memories could be of help.”

  Fritz said, “You talk of taking one alive, sir. But how can that be done? Once he is out of the Tripod, he will choke, within seconds, in our atmosphere.”

  “A good point,” Julius said, “but we have an answer to it. You brought back samples from the City. We have learned how to reproduce the green air in which they live. A room has already been prepared here in the castle, sealed and with an airlock enabling us to pass in and out.”

  Fritz said, “But if you manage to lure a Tripod here, and wreck it . . . the others will come looking for it. They could destroy the castle easily enough.”

  “We also have a box big enough to hold one of them, and can seal that. If we make our capture further along the coast, we can bring him here by boat.”

  I said, “And the means of capturing, sir? I would not have thought that was easy.”

  “No,” Julius agreed, “not easy. But we have been studying them. They are creatures of routine, and generally follow particular paths. We have mapped and timetabled many of them. There is a place, some fifty miles to the north, where one passes every nine days. It strides across rough land at the sea’s edge. Between one passing and the next we have nine days to dig a hole and cover it lightly with brush and clods. We will bring our Tripod down, and after that all we have to do is winkle the Master out and get him into his box and onto the boat lying hard by. Since your report told us that their breathing is much slower than ours, there should be no danger of his suffocating before we can get a mask on him.”

  Fritz objected. “They can communicate with each other, and with the City, by invisible rays.”

  Julius smiled. “We can handle that part, too. Now, talk to us about the Tripods. There is paper in front of you, and pencils. Draw diagrams of them. The drawing will refresh your memories.”

  • • •

  We were a week at the castle, before moving north. During that time I learned a little, from Beanpole and the others, of the great strides that had been taken, during the previous year, in relearning the skills of the ancients. A breakthrough had been made by an expedition into the ruins of one of the great-cities, where a library had been found containing thousands on thousands of books which explained the marvels of the time before the Tripods came. These gave access to an entire world of knowledge. It was possible now, Beanpole told me, to make those bulbs which, by means of the power called electricity, would glow with light far brighter and more constant than the oil lamps and candles to which we were accustomed. It was possible to get heat from an arrangement of wires, to build a carriage which would travel along not pulled by horses but by means of a small engine inside it. I looked at Beanpole, when he said that.

  “Then the Shmand-Fair could be made to work again, as it used to work?”

  “Very easily. We know how to machine metals, to make the artificial stone which the ancients called concrete. We could put up towering buildings, create great-cities again. We can send messages by the invisible rays that the Masters use—even send pictures through the air! There is so much that we can do, or could learn to do in a short time. But we are concentrating only on those things which are of direct and immediate help in defeating the enemy. For instance, at one of our laboratories we have developed a machine which uses great heat to cut through metal. It will be waiting for us in the north.”

  Laboratories, I wondered—what were they? My mind was confused by much of what he said. We had both learned a lot during the time we had been separated, but his knowledge was so much greater and more wonderful than mine. He looked a lot older. The clumsy contraption of lenses, which he had worn when we first set eyes on him at the other side of a smoky bar in a French fishing town, had been replaced by a neat symmetrical affair which sat on the bridge of his long thin nose and gave him an air of authority. They were called spectacles, he had told me, and others among the scientists wore them. Spectacles, scientists . . . so many words, for things outside my ken.

  I think he realized how much at a loss I felt. He asked me questions about my own experiences, and I told him what I could. He listened to it all intently, as though my ordinary travels were as interesting and important as the fantastic things he had been learning and doing. It was kind of him.

  • • •

  We set up camp in caves not far from the intended place of ambush. The boat we were to use, a forty-foot fishing smack, stayed close at hand, her nets out to provide an appearance of innocence. (In fact, she caught a fair haul of fish, mostly mackerel; some provided rations for us and the rest were thrown back.) On a particular morning, we kept well out of sight while two of our number went farther up, to hide behind rocks and watch the Tripod pass. Those of us who stayed in the cave heard it, anyway: it was making one of the calls whose meaning we did not know, an eerie warbling sound. As it faded in the distance, Julius said, “On time, to the minute. Now we go to work.”

  We labored hard at preparing the trap. Nine days was not so long a time, when it involved digging away enough earth to serve as a pitfall for a thing with fifty-foot legs, leaving a pattern of supports on which the camouflage must rest. Beanpole, pausing in his digging, spoke wistfully of something which had been called a bulldozer, and which could move earth and stones by the ton. But that was another thing there had not been time enough to re-create.

  At any rate, we got through the task, with a day to spare. The day seemed longer than the previous eight together had. We sat in the mouth of the cave, looking out to a gray calm sea, patched with mist. At least, the sea journey should not offer much difficulty. Once we had trapped our Tripod, and caught our Master, that was.

  The weather stayed cold and dry next morning. We took up our places—all of us—over an hour before the Tripod was due to pass. Fritz and I were together, Beanpole with the man working the jammer. This was a machine that could send out invisible rays of its own, to break up the rays coming to and going from the Tripods and isolate it, for the time being, from contact with others. I was full of doubts about this, but Beanpole was confident. He said the rays could be interrupted by natural things like thunderstorms, or by a fault in the machine transmitting them: the Masters would think something like that had happened, until it was too late to do anything about it.

&nbs
p; The minutes crawled by. Gradually my concentration turned into a sort of daze. I was jolted back to reality by Fritz touching my shoulder. I looked and saw the Tripod swing around the side of a hill to the south, heading directly for us. Immediately I tensed for the part I was to play. It was traveling at an average speed. In less than five minutes . . . Then, without warning, the Tripod stopped. It halted with one of its three feet raised, looking absurdly like a dog begging for a bone. For three or four seconds it stayed there. The foot came down. The Tripod continued its progress; but it was no longer heading our way. It had changed course, and would miss us by something like a mile.

  In stunned amazement, I watched it travel on and disappear. From behind a clump of trees on the other side of the pitfall, André, our leader, came out and waved. We went to join him, with the others.

  It was soon established what had gone wrong. The Tripod’s hesitation had coincided with the ray jammer being turned on. It had stopped, and then shied away. The man who had worked the machine said, “I should have waited till it was on top of the trap. I didn’t expect it to react like that.”

  Someone asked, “What do we do now?”

  The letdown feeling was evident in all of us. All that work and waiting for nothing. It made our entire project seem hopeless, childlike almost.

  Julius had come hobbling up. He said, “We wait, of course.” His calmness was steadying. “We wait till next time, and then we won’t use the jammer until the absolutely last moment. Meanwhile, we can extend the trap farther still.”

  So the working and waiting went on, for nine more days, and zero-hour came around again. The Tripod appeared, as it had done previously, marched around the side of the hill, reached the point where it had stopped the time before. This time it did not stop. But it did not come on toward us, either. Without hesitation, it took the identical course it had taken after its earlier check. Seeing it depart, well out of our reach, was more than a double bitterness.