The Pool of Fire (The Tripods)

by John Christopher

  The last time, the pool had been deserted by night, but we could take no chances. Fritz cautiously heaved himself up the side, and peered over. He waved to the rest of us, and we climbed out, on to solid ground. And into the crushing leaden weight of the City’s gravity. I saw my companions, prewarned but shaken for all that, stagger under the sudden strain. Their shoulders sagged. The spring had gone out of their limbs, as I knew it had gone out of my own. I realized that we might not look so very different from the slaves, after all.

  Quickly, we did what was necessary, unclipping the tubes from our masks and unstrapping the oxygen tanks from our backs. This left us with ordinary masks, with sponge filters in the neck pouches which we would renew later in one of the communal places that the slaves used. We punctured the tanks and lashed them and the tubes together. Then one of us climbed back into the pool for a moment, and held them under till they filled. They sank down. The current would take them out into the river. Even if one of the Capped fished them out, tomorrow or the day after, he would make nothing of them. He would take them for another of the mysteries of the Tripods; as we knew, debris did emerge from the City from time to time.

  We could talk to each other, but were anxious to make no unnecessary noise. Fritz nodded again, and we set off. Past the nets which took heat out of the water, so that beyond the last one, the surface steamed and even bubbled in places, past the great cascade that formed the pool, along by stacks of crates reaching up to the pointed roof of the hall, and so to the steep curving ramp which marked the way out. The light around us was a dim yellow-green, from the globes which hung from the ceiling. Fritz led the way, advancing warily from cover to cover, and we followed his signals. Few of the Masters were active at night, but it would not do to be surprised by one; because certainly no slaves should be abroad. Moreover, we were carrying certain things we had brought with us, parts of the distillation apparatus which we could not expect to find here.

  Slowly we made our way across the sleeping City. We passed places where there was the hum of busy machinery, and deserted garden-pools in which ugly, somber-colored plants looked like menacing sentient beings themselves. We traveled along one side of the great arena on which the Sphere Chase was played. Looking at these, and other familiar places, the days, years of the free life I had known seemed to disappear. I could almost think that I was on my way back to that apartment in Pyramid 19 where my Master would be waiting for me. Waiting for me to make his bed, rub his back, prepare his meal—or even just to talk to him, to give him the companionship which, in some strange way, he wanted.

  It was a long journey made more protracted by our determination to run no risk. By the time we reached the area we sought, on the opposite side of the City, where the river came in, to be purified and treated, the darkness overhead was beginning to turn green. In the world outside, a clean dawn would be breaking over the hills. We were tired and hot, clammy with our own sweat, thirsty and aching under the never-ending weight that dragged us down. Many hours must elapse before we would be able to slip into one of the refuges, remove our masks, and eat and drink. I wondered how the four who were new to all this were taking it.

  We were crossing an open triangular space, keeping under the cover of gnarled treelike plants that leaned out of the inevitable pool. Fritz went on a stage, stopped, and waved for others to follow. I, as rearguard, would be the last to go. As I prepared, I saw, instead of a beckoning wave, his hand held up in warning. I froze to my spot, and waited. There was a sound in the distance: a series of rhythmic slapping noises. I knew what that was. Three feet coming down in succession on the smooth stone.

  A Master. My skin prickled as I saw him, in the dim green twilight, passing along the far side of the plaza. I thought that, having seen so much of Ruki over so long a time, I had grown used to them but Ruki had been our prisoner, confined in that small cell. Looking at this one, going about his ordinary business, in the City which was the symbol of their power, all the old fear returned, and the old hatred.

  • • •

  Fritz and I had found, during our earlier stay here, that there were many places in the City which were rarely if ever used. A lot of these were storehouses, stacked with crates, like the cavern through which we had entered, or empty in preparation for some future use. I imagine that in building the City, they had allowed space for expansion, and that a lot of it had not yet been taken up.

  At any rate, this was something of which we could take advantage. The Masters, as exemplified in the unvarying routes so often followed by the Tripods, were creatures of repetitious habit in many ways; and the human slaves would never venture anywhere except on a direct errand. It would have been unthinkable for them to pry into what they regarded as the holy mysteries of the gods.

  We headed for a pyramid which Fritz had marked down, less than a hundred yards from the ramp leading down to the water purification plant. It was obvious that the ground floor was not in use; brownish fuzz, slow growing and easily brushed off by contact, covered the exposed surfaces of the crates. (There were a number of such funguslike growths in the City, which the Masters did not seem to bother about.) To make ourselves doubly safe, though, we went on into the basement, where the crates were stacked even higher. We cleared a space at the far corner, and began to set up our apparatus.

  We were depending on the resources of the City itself for a good part of our equipment. Glass tubes, for instance, and jars, we knew to be available. What we had brought with us were chiefly small tools, and rubber tubes and sealers. Another item for which we were going to poach on our enemy was the method of heating. There were no fires here, but there were pads, of various sizes, which, when a button was pressed, gave off a concentrated radiant heat: the smaller ones were used by the slaves to boil liquids for their Masters. They had attachments which fitted into sockets in the walls of the buildings, and when heat stopped being produced they were fitted in and left for an hour or so, after which they were as good as new. Beanpole had explained that it must be a form of the electricity which our scientists had rediscovered.

  Day broke, the light paled through shades of green, and there was even a pale, barely visible disk, which was the sun. In two shifts, Fritz guiding one and I the other, we went to one of the communal places, to freshen ourselves, to eat and drink and replace the filters which we used in our masks. This, too, had been carefully chosen. It was the communal place attached to one of the major pyramids, where a large number of Masters, from different parts of the City, met daily to conduct business. (Like so many other things, the nature of the business itself was baffling.) This meant that there was a large and constant turnover of slaves, who had accompanied their Masters and whose services had been dispensed with for the time being. Some were there for hours, sleeping on the couches, and the majority of them did not know each other except as anonymous figures, with whom they jostled for places at the dispensing machines or for vacant couches. All the slaves were always so exhausted they they had little energy for observation, anyway.

  This was to be our principal base, not only for the supply of food and water, but for the equally pressing needs for recuperation and sleep. We had decided we must work by night, and snatch what rest we could during the day. It would not be much—a few hours at a time.

  During the first day, we foraged for the things we needed. It was astonishing how smoothly it went. André had been right in saying that the three attacks had to be made simultaneously, because the whole hope of success depended on the absolute confidence the Masters had in their control of Capped humans. We could go where we liked and take what we liked, because it was unthinkable that we should be doing anything that was not sanctioned by them. We labored through the streets with our booty right under the noses of the enemy. Two of us dragged a vat, on a small, wheeled trailer, through an open space in which, on either side, a dozen or more Masters disported with solemn gracelessness in steaming water.

  The vats were our primary requisition. We got three of them down
into the basement and filled them with a mash made of water and the biscuitlike food which was available to slaves in the communal places. The resultant evil-looking concoction was a starchy mess to which we added a little of the dried yeast which we had brought with us. It was not long before it was fermenting—the scientists had said this would happen, even in the different air of the City, but it was a relief to see the bubbles forming, all the same. The first stage was under way.

  As soon as we had got it started, we began constructing the distillation unit. This was not so easy. The normal distillation process involves heating a liquid so that it forms steam. Alcohol, which we were hoping to produce, boils at a lower temperature than water, and so the first steam given off has a lot of alcohol in it. The next step should be to cool the steam, so that it condenses back into a liquid. Repeating the process produces progressively more and more concentrated alcohol.

  Unfortunately, we faced the problem of the City’s all-pervading heat. We had hoped to overcome it by running longer lengths of tubing, giving the steam more time to cool, but it was soon apparent that this was not going to work. The amount trickling through was pitiful—a slow drip which looked as though it would take months to fill the collecting jar. We had to find another way of tackling it.

  That night, Fritz and I went out together. We traveled cautiously down the ramp to the cavern which held the water purification plant. The green lights were on, and the machines throbbed with power, but there was no one there. The machines worked automatically, and what need was there to set a guard in a place where the only living things were the Masters and their devoted slaves? (Not a door in the City had a lock on it.) On this side of the machines, a pool of seething hot water, more than twenty feet across, issued into vents which took it on its multifarious courses—to be pumped up to the top floors of the pyramids, or to form the supply for the many garden-pools and similar amenities at ground level. But beyond . . .

  There was another pool here, feeding into the machines. In turn, it was fed from a wide arch, breaking the seamless dull gold of the Wall. We climbed a small barrier, and found ourselves on a narrow ledge, which ran back into a tunnel. We went along it, into increasing darkness.

  Coolness struck up from the tumbling surface of the water. It offered exactly what we required, but we needed more space if we were to set up a distillation apparatus here. Fritz was ahead of me. I only knew he had stopped when his footsteps ceased. It was too dark to see and I called softly, “Where are you?”

  “Here. Take my hand.”

  We were right under the Wall by now. The water had a different noise, more riotous, and I guessed this must be the point where it bubbled free of its underground confinement. It had to come in from the outer world at a depth low enough to make sure no air came with it. Groping after Fritz, I found myself moving out over the area which earlier had been occupied by the river. There was a kind of platform, stretching across the tunnel, and leading to a smaller tunnel which continued outward, directly above the now-subterranean stream. We found what appeared to be the manhole cover for an inspection chamber, and presumably there were others. I imagine they were there against the possibility of a blockage. They would have had to use the Capped for checking if so—none of the Masters could have got into so confined a space.

  Fritz said, “There is room, Will.”

  I objected. “It’s pitch black.”

  “We will have to manage. And eyes become accustomed. I can see a little better already, I think.”

  I could scarcely see anything. But he was right—we should have to manage. We needed a coolant, and here it was, swirling below us in abundance.

  I asked, “Can we start tonight?”

  “We can get some of the stuff along, at least.”

  • • •

  In the nights that followed, we worked frantically to build up supplies. There was a plentiful supply of containers, made of a stuff like glass but yielding a little to touch, and we filled these with the product of our labors. There would not have been room for them on the platform, but we were able to stack them along the side of the tunnel. I prayed that there would be no blockage in the water inflow, calling for inspection, during this time. It did not seem likely that there would. The system was obviously designed for an emergency, and had probably not been used since the City was built.

  It was an exhausting life. In the tunnel, one had some escape from the heat, but the extra gravity still pulled one down and there was still the need to wear face masks. We were badly short of sleep, also. There were only about twelve hours a day during which it was practicable to use the communal rooms, and we had to take our rest there in shifts. It could be frustrating when the place was full of slaves. On one occasion, dog-tired, I got there to find every couch occupied. I dropped and slept on the hard floor until I was awakened by a hand on my shoulder, and realized, with aching eyes and protesting limbs, that I must get up again, put on my mask, and go out into the green mist that was our nearest approach to daylight.

  But time passed, and slowly our supplies built up. We were working to a schedule, and met our target with nearly a week to spare. We went on making alcohol. It was better than simply marking time and waiting, and the higher the concentration we managed to get into the Masters’ water supply, the more effective presumably it was likely to be. We had already identified the conduit leading from the inner pool which supplied the drinking water system. We were ready for the day and hour that had been arranged. At last it came.

  The precise timing offered one major snag. We had no idea how soon the effects of alcohol would start showing in the Masters, nor at what stage they would begin to realize that something was wrong. The three Cities, we knew, were in communication with each other, and it would not do for one to alert the others to a danger that could be averted. So the drinking water in each had to be tampered with at roughly the same time.

  And there, of course, we faced the problem set by the fact that our world was a globe, revolving around the sun. The water purification plants had a daytime staff of Masters, who looked after the machines on three separate shifts, but were unattended at night. It had been realized that two out of the three attempts could be made in this interval; one just after the day’s work ended, the other not long before it began. That meant that for the third City it had to be not far from midday when the sabotage attempt was made.

  It had been agreed without question that ours was the expedition which must handle this. We had the advantage of being closer to headquarters and of having in our number two who knew the City from experience. It was up to us somehow to complete our task while Masters were actually on duty at the plant.

  We gave it a lot of thought. Although we had got away with carting pieces of equipment around, and the four newcomers had grown so used to the presence of the Masters as to be almost contemptuous of them—this did not happen with Fritz or me, whose memories were still sharp and bitter—it was extremely unlikely that they would fail to query it if they saw us carrying containers out from the tunnel and emptying them into one of the conduits. This was, after all, their own special department, and any humans working there would be under their orders.

  One of us suggested posing as a slave with a message, calling them all away to some other part of the City. Since they never mistrusted the slaves, they would not doubt the genuineness of it. Fritz dismissed the idea.

  “It would be a strange message, and they might think the slave confused. They would be likely to check with other Masters, perhaps in the place to which they were told to go. Remember that they can talk to each other at long distances. In any case, I am sure that they would not all go. One at least would stay at the machines.”

  “Then what?”

  “There is only one possibility, really.” We looked at him, and I nodded. “We must use force.”

  The maximum number of Masters on duty at any particular time was four, but one only appeared occasionally; I think he was a supervisor of some kind. Usually there
were three of them, but one of these would frequently be absent, taking a dip in a nearby garden-pool. Even armed with the knowledge of that vulnerable spot between nose and mouth, the six of us could not hope to deal with more than two at a time. Under equal conditions they would have been so much bigger and stronger than we were; here, with their artificial gravity, the contest would have been hopeless. We had no weapons, and no means of making any.

  The moment we had chosen was roughly halfway through the middle shift of the day. It was necessary to be ready to act as soon as the third Master came up the ramp and headed for the garden-pool, which meant that we had to have cover within easy reach and observation of the entrance to the plant. Fritz solved the problem by getting us to cut branches from trees in the pool during the night and pile them in a heap: this was frequently done by way of pruning, and the branches left until a squad of slaves came to remove them. We could bank on their going unnoticed for a day, at least. So, having been in turn to the communal place, we surreptitiously snuggled into the pile, which had something of the texture of seaweed—a clinging loathsome rubberiness, which made the skin crawl. Fritz was in a position where he could look out, the rest of us deeply buried and running, I thought, some risk of smothering if matters were too long delayed.

  The delay appeared to be very long indeed. I lay in this unpleasant nest, with nothing to see but the fronds in front of my face, dying to know what was happening outside but not daring even to whisper a question. The stuff was getting sticky, too, probably because it was decaying, which did not make the wait any more attractive. I found I had a cramp in one leg, but could not move to ease it. The pain got worse. I would have to massage it . . .

  “Now,” Fritz said.

  There was no one about. We raced for the ramp, or, at least, lumbered a little faster than usual. At the bottom, we slowed. One Master was in view, the other out of sight behind one of the machines. As we approached, he said, “What is it? You have some errand here?”