فصل 3

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 explained 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.

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.

• • •

At a council of war we were in low spirits. Even Julius, I thought, was dismayed, though he did his best not to show it. I found it impossible to conceal my own despair.

Julius said, “One sees how it works. They follow set courses on these patrols. If the course is varied for some reason, that variation is kept on subsequent trips.” A scientist said, “It probably has something to do with automatic piloting.” I wondered what that was. “The course is plotted—and if you override it you set up a new pattern which remains constant until that is overridden in turn. I can see how it might work.” Which was more than I did. Talking about the why and wherefore did not strike me as important, anyway. The question was: how to get at the Tripod now?

Someone suggested digging another pitfall, across the new course. That remark fell into silence, which Julius broke.

“We could. But the new course does not pass within a mile of the shore, and the going in between is very bad. No road, not even a track. I think we would have them swarming around us before we had our prisoner halfway to the boat.” After a second or two, André said, “I suppose we could call the operation off temporarily. We could look for another Tripod track within reach of the sea, and work on that instead.” Someone else said, “It took us four months to find this one. Finding another could take as long, or longer.”

And every day counted: none of us needed telling that. Silence fell again. I tried to think of something, but found only a blank in my mind. There was a sharp wind, a smell of snow in the air. Land and sea alike were black and desolate, under a lowering sky. It was Beanpole who spoke at last. He said, diffident in the presence of our elders, “It does not seem that the jamming last week made it suspicious. It would hardly have come so close again if so; or would have come closer still, to investigate. The altered course is—well, more or less an accident.” André nodded. “I would accept that. Does it help?”

“If we could lure it back on to the old route . . .”

“Of course. The problem is: how? What would lure a Tripod? Do you know? Does anyone?”

Beanpole said, “I am thinking of something Will told me, that Fritz and he had witnessed.”

He told them, briefly, the story of the Hunt. When he had finished, one of the scientists said, “We know about that. But it’s a tradition, going back scores of years. Do you propose starting a tradition during the next nine days?” Beanpole began to say something, which was interrupted. All our nerves were frayed; tempers likely to be short. Julius, though, cut across the interruption, “Go on, Jean-Paul.” “I was thinking . . . we know strange things make them curious. When Will and I were floating down-river on a raft, one of them veered off course to look at the raft and smash it. If somehow we could attract this one’s attention, and perhaps lead it into the trap . . . I think it might work.” André objected. “To attract its attention, and then stay out of its clutches long enough to bring it in . . . it’s a tall order.”

“It would be impossible for someone on foot,” Beanpole said. “But in the Hunt the men were on horseback. One covered quite a distance before he was caught.” There was a pause again. Julius said thoughtfully, “Yes, it might work. But can we be sure he will rise to the bait? A man on horseback is not a particularly strange thing. They see them every day, by the score.” “If the man were strangely dressed—and perhaps the horse painted . . .”

“Green,” Fritz said. “It is their special color, after all. A green man, on a green horse? I think that would attract attention.”

Julius said, “Yes.” He nodded. “Yes, it could do the trick. All we need is a horse and rider.”

I felt excitement rise. Most of these were scientists, unused to physical pursuits like horse riding. In fact, the two with an obvious claim were Fritz and me. And I had Crest, and we had learned each other’s ways through a long year’s journeying.

I caught Julius’s eye.

“Sir, if I might suggest . . .”

• • •

We used a green dye on Crest, which would wash off afterward. He took the indignity well, with no more than a snort of disgust. The color was bright emerald, the effect startling. I wore a jacket and trousers of the same eye-wrenching hue. I objected when Beanpole approached my face with a rag dipped in the dye but, on Julius’s confirmation, submitted. Fritz burst into laughter. He was not given to expressing mirth, so I must have been a truly comic sight.

During the previous nine days I had many times rehearsed my part in this morning’s events. I was to pick up the Tripod as it came around the hill and, as soon as it made a move in my direction, gallop at full speed for the pitfall. We had built a narrow causeway across the top, which we hoped would take Crest’s weight and mine, and marked it with signs meant to be conspicuous enough for me to pick out but unlikely to make the occupants of the Tripod suspicious. It was a narrow and ill-defined path we had to follow, and more than once I had found myself off course and only been saved by a last-minute swerve from plunging into the pit.

Now, at last, all was ready. I checked Crest’s girths for the tenth time. The others shook hands with me, and withdrew. I was very lonely as I watched them go. Now there was the waiting again, familiar and yet different. This time things were more crucial, and this time I was alone.

I felt it first: the earth vibrating to the stamp of huge metal feet. Another, and another—a steady succession, eventually audible. I patted Crest’s head as I watched for the Tripod. It came at last: a monstrous leg broke the line of the hillside, followed by the hemisphere. I shivered, and felt Crest shiver too. I was on the alert for any deviation from the course the Tripod had followed on the last two occasions. If it did not move toward me, I must move toward it. I hoped I would not have to.

Suddenly one of the legs swung sharply around. It had spotted me, and was coming after me. I touched my heels to Crest’s sides. He shot off, and the chase was on.

I had an urge to look back, but dared not; every scrap of effort must go into the gallop. I could tell, though, by the shortening intervals between footfalls, that the Tripod was increasing speed. Familiar landmarks fell away on either side. Ahead there was the coast, the sea dark gray, capped with white by a freshening wind. I knew it was fast gaining on me. The wind blew in my face, and I resented it for slowing my flight even by a fraction of a second. I passed a thorn bush I knew, a rock shaped like a cottage loaf. Less than a quarter of a mile to go . . . And as I framed that thought, I heard the whistling of steel through the air, the sound of the tentacle swishing down.

I made a guess, and urged Crest to the right. I thought I had got away with it, then felt Crest shudder violently from the shock of being hit by the metal flail. It must have caught him on the hind quarters, just behind the saddle. He swayed and collapsed. I managed to get my feet out of the stirrups and went forward over his head as he fell. I hit the ground, rolling, scrambled to my feet, and ran.

At every instant I expected to be plucked into the air. But the Tripod was more immediately concerned with Crest. I glanced back and saw him lifted, jerking feebly, and brought close to the green ports at the bottom of the hemisphere. I ran on furiously. Only a couple of hundred yards . . . If the Tripod busied itself with Crest for even half a minute, I would be there.

I risked another look back in time to see my poor horse dropped, from a height of some sixty feet, to land in a broken heap on the ground; and to see the Tripod move in renewed pursuit. I could go no faster. The metal feet thudded behind, and the edge of the pitfall seemed to get no nearer. For the whole of the last fifty yards, I thought I was finished. Perhaps the Tripod was playing with me, like a great steel cat with a frantically scurrying mouse. (That was what Beanpole suggested afterward.) All that I knew then was that my legs were desperately aching, my lungs, it seemed, on the point of bursting. I became aware, as I neared the edge of the pitfall, of a new hazard. I had learned the trail from horseback height, and the change in perspective was utterly confusing. At the last moment I recognized a stone, and made for it. I was on the causeway. But I still had to get across, and the Tripod had to follow.

I knew I had succeeded in my task when, instead of the stamp of a metal foot, I heard a ripping noise behind me, and at the same time felt the surface collapse beneath my own feet. I grabbed at a branch which had been woven into the camouflaged surface of the pit. It came away, and I was falling again. I seized another branch, of thorn, and it held longer, though lacerating my hands as I gripped it. While I was thus perilously suspended, the sky darkened over me. The surface had yielded beneath the foremost leg of the Tripod, with the second leg in midair. Off-balance, it was plunging forward, with the hemisphere swinging uncontrollably across and down. Looking up, I saw it hurtle past, and a moment later felt the shock of its impact with the solid ground on the far side. I myself was hanging halfway up the pit, at grave risk of falling the rest of the way. No one was going to come to my assistance: they had more important work to do. I collected my scattered senses and climbed, slowly and gingerly, up the tangled web of reeds and branches.

By the time I reached the scene, things were well under way. The outer door had fallen open with the shock, and Fritz led the team with the metal-cutting machine inside and set to work on the inner door. They wore masks, for protection against the green air which eddied out as the machine penetrated the metal. It seemed a long time to those waiting, but in fact it was only a matter of minutes before they were through and tackling the dazed occupants. Fritz confirmed that one of them was definitely alive, and they pulled the mask that had been prepared over his head and tied it tight around his middle.

I watched as they heaved him out. A cart had been drawn up close, and on it stood the vast crate—of wood, sealed with a tar which would keep the green air in and our own out—which was to take him. He was pulled and pushed and at last dropped in, a grotesque figure with his three short stumpy legs, tapering conical body, three eyes and three tentacles, and that green reptilian skin I remembered with such lively horror. The top dropped down on the crate, and more men got to work, sealing it. Then the word was given to the men on the horse teams, and the horses pulled away, dragging cart and cargo toward the beach.

The rest of us cleared our traces, as far as possible, from the scene. The Masters, when they came on the broken Tripod, could no longer doubt that they were facing organized opposition—this was no casual haphazard thing such as our destruction of a Tripod on the way to the White Mountains had been—but even though it amounted to a declaration of war, there was no point in leaving unnecessary clues. I should have liked to bury Crest, but of course there was no time. In case the trick might serve again, we sponged the green dye from his body, and left him there. I walked a little apart from the others as we came away, not wanting them to see my eyes.

The cart was hauled out through the waves until the water lapped against the chests of the horses. The fishing boat had a shallow enough draught to get alongside, and the crate with our prisoner was winched on board. Viewing the smoothness of the operation I was more than ever impressed by the planning that had gone into it. The horses were unharnessed and led ashore; from there they would be scattered north and south in pairs, one ridden, one led.

The rest of us heaved our wet shivering bodies over the gunwales. One thing remained to be done. A line had been fastened to the cart and, as the boat stood off, it rolled behind us till the waves closed over it. When that happened the line was cut and the boat, released from its burden, bobbed briefly in the gray waters. On shore, the horses had already disappeared. All that was left was the shattered wreck of the Tripod, with a faint green mist eddying from the mutilated hemisphere. The remaining Masters were certainly dead by now. And our jammer had worked. The Tripod lay crumpled and solitary; there was no sign yet of others coming to help.

Our course was south. With the wind stiff and blowing from only a few points north of west, progress was slow, involving a fair amount of tacking. All available hands bent to the task, and gradually the distance from our embarkation point increased. There was a headland we needed to clear; we rounded it with painful sluggishness, wallowing in a tide which had just begun to turn.

But now the shore was distant, the broken Tripod a dot on the horizon. They brought mulled ale up from the galley, to warm our chilled bones.