فصل 3

chapter THREE

About a week after Ilse went to Switzerland, I finally caught a Trippy Show. Pa was out, and Martha had taken Angela to the shop. She’d refused to go at first because she wanted to watch, and rather than have her stick around I’d promised to videotape it for her. I switched on, and started to watch it myself.

It was a mixture of cartoon, live action, stills, and abstract, the abstract using all the old computerized design tricks and a few new ones. The cartoons were very detailed and realistic, animated paintings almost, and even the abstract bits were full of Tripod shapes. The whole thing was backed up by music which seemed chaotic but after a time built into a pattern of sounds and rhythms which weirdly hung together.

I’d heard it was a comic show, poking fun at the Tripods as stupid giants that lumbered around and got into trouble, getting their legs tied in knots and falling over—that sort of thing. It was like that to start with, but later the attitude changed. The second part featured a maiden in distress, imprisoned and tied up by a nasty-looking dragon, and a knight trying to rescue her. It was comic-book historical, with him in shining armor and her in a long dress, with one of those hoodlike things I think they call a wimple on her head.

The knight’s rescue attempts kept on going wrong in ludicrous ways. Some of them were funny, and I laughed once or twice. But gradually it became less funny than frightening: what you could see of the girl’s face had a desperate look, the knight was sweating with fear, and the dragon was more sinister and had doubled in size.

The climax saw the knight pinned down beneath one of the dragon’s feet, a claw through his armor and realistic blood dripping into the dust, and the dragon’s jaws moving down towards the girl’s head. The music was jagged and ugly, backed by a drumbeat like a death roll. There was a shot of the knight’s face, and he looked as dead as I’d ever seen. It gave me the shivers.

That was when the Tripod came over the horizon, with dawn behind it and the music changing. It turned into the Trippy theme, but tricked out with extra harmonies and an orchestra which had everything from an organ to hunting horns. It sounded vigorous and hopeful. The silvery tentacles had a gentle gleam, not the hard metal glare I remembered, as they swished out of the sky—one to release the girl, a second to lift up the knight, the third to drive like a spear into the puffed-out chest of the dragon.

It ended with the girl freed, the knight revived, and the pair of them mounted on his horse and riding off into the dawn. The dragon dissolved first into bones, then dust. And the Tripod presided over the scene, with the rising sun throwing a halo round its capsule. There was the Trippy tune and massed voices roaring “Hail the Tripod! Hail the Tripod! Hail the Tripod!” On and on.

I’d watched it right through and it certainly hadn’t been boring, but it left me without any desire to see another Trippy Show. But I knew a lot of people were crazy on it, like Angela. Though the craze wasn’t confined to kids—a lot of adults were fans.

I ran the tape back, and hit the playback button to check. The beginning of an antiques program Martha had videotaped came up. I thought I must have started recording partway in, but as the man droned on about some worm-eaten writing desk I realized what had happened. It was something I’d done before, pressing RECORD with the set tuned to TV instead of VCR.

When they came back, I was in my room. I heard the car stop and the front door open, and Angela’s voice yelling for me. I thought it best to get it over with. I found her in the hall.

“Where is it? The tape. You didn’t label it.”

“No, I missed it. I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I was watching on the TV channel, and forgot to switch to video.” “It’s not funny, Laurie. Where’s the tape?”

I shook my head, and she saw I meant it.

“You can’t have done.” Her voice rose to a howl. “You can’t have, you can’t! You couldn’t be so rotten!” Martha came in to find her sobbing, and asked what was the matter.

I said, “I forgot to record the Trippy Show. At least, I didn’t forget . . .” Martha said coldly, “You promised her.”

“I know. And I tried to.” The sobbing was getting louder and wilder; I had to raise my own voice to be heard. “Anyway, I don’t think it’s a program kids ought to watch. I don’t think you would either, if you’d seen it. You’ve always gone on about violence on TV, and . . .” Angela’s face was white and tense. Without warning she came at me like a small but savage bull. I grabbed the stairpost to avoid going over, and the bull turned into a cat, clawing wildly. I heard Martha’s voice, shocked, saying “Angel,” and then was too busy defending myself. It was silly—she was only seven and not particularly big for her age—but I realized I needed to use all my strength to hold her off. In the end I managed to pin her against the stairs. She struggled and screamed for quite a bit; then went limp.

She lay slumped as I stood up.

Martha said, “What have you done to her?”

“Nothing. Only tried to stop her killing me.”

I felt a trickle down my cheek and my hand came away smeared with blood. Martha was stooping beside Angela. She said, “Angel, are you all right?” Angela didn’t answer, but the sobbing started again; no longer violent, just miserable. Martha said we should get her to bed. We practically had to carry her.

Martha discussed it with Pa that evening. Angela was still in her room, and he went up to see her.

When he came down, he said, “She seems all right.”

“I was worried,” Martha said. “She was—well, violent.”

Pa said, “Children do have storms for no reason.” He smiled at me. “Laurie did, when he was that age.” I remembered a particular time, when he’d said he would play football with me and hadn’t. When he finally came out, I kicked him instead of the ball, and went on kicking him. I’d had a good reason, though. That was before Ilse came to live with us, but I knew about her; and I knew he’d been talking to her on the telephone and had forgotten his promise to me.

Angela seemed normal when she came down, at least as far as the others were concerned; she didn’t speak to me. Martha went to fix supper, and she headed for the stack of videotapes. We both saw what she picked out: one of the Trippy Shows.

Pa said, “I don’t think we want that, Angel.”

“There’s time. Martha said half an hour.”

“All the same . . .”

I expected her to go into one of her wheedling routines, but her face was expressionless as she stared at him, holding the cassette.

Pa said, after a moment, “Well, keep it quiet. I think I’ll go to the study phone, and find out what the weather in the Alps is like.” I went to my room. The Trippy music followed me up the stairs.

• • •

We had double physics on Monday morning, which made a depressing start to the week. Wild Bill was late and we gossiped. Talk got round to the Trippy Show, and I noticed the difference in reactions, some saying it was lousy and others raving about it. There didn’t seem to be any logical way of working out who was likely to be for, and who against.

Andy just said he thought it a bit silly. I said it wasn’t silly, it was zilch, and poked fun at the bit with the knight and the dragon.

Rodney Chambers, in the row in front of me, said, “What do you know?” I was surprised, not by the remark but by his making it. I couldn’t remember him expressing an opinion about anything before. I said, “I know a load of rubbish when I see it. My little sister goes for it, though. I suppose it’s her age level.” Chambers stood up. “Shut up,” he said. “Or I’ll shut you up!” He doubled a fist. That was surprising—he never got into fights, either—but it was his expression that hit me. It was exactly like the one on Angela’s face before she went into that demented attack. The others were watching. I shrugged and tried to grin it off.

“The Trippy Show is the best thing on television.” He leaned forward. “Say it, Cordray!” The classroom door opened, and Wild Bill came in.

“A little preclass discussion, ladies and gentlemen? But not of physics, I suspect.” He ran his fingers through his hair as he came to stand in front of us. “Did I catch a reference to the Trippy Show? Oddly enough, I watched it myself the other day, and liked it more than I had anticipated. It has a curious, and curiously strong, appeal.” He was silent for a moment or two. “Yes, curiously strong. But I suppose we’d better consider physics. Chapter Nine, I think.” • • •

Pa didn’t tell Ilse about Angela’s crazy fit, I suppose so as not to worry her. He telephoned her every evening as soon as he got in. It seemed the Swigramp was no worse, but no better. She wanted to come back, but felt she had to stay because another attack might kill him.

It suited me. Martha was tougher than Ilse—no bribing treats—but I knew where I was with Martha. Angela didn’t seem to be missing her mother, either, but nowadays all Angela was interested in was the Trippy Show. She didn’t even seem to care about her pony, and Martha had to remind her about exercising and mucking out. She had all the shows on tape—she’d got the one I’d missed from somewhere—and hogged the VCR playing them. Martha tried cutting down, but Angela went hysterical on her, and she didn’t push it. She’d joined the new Trippy fan club, and got a lot of stuff through the mail.

I overheard Martha telling Pa one night they ought to do something about it.

Pa said, “Kids have these crazes.”

“But not behaving the way she does when one tries to curb her. I’m not sure she doesn’t need treatment.” “I thought you despised psychiatry?”

“I think Geoffrey should see her, at least.”

Geoffrey Monmouth was our doctor. He and Pa played golf together.

“I don’t see the need.”

His voice was resentful, perhaps because he didn’t like the idea of admitting there could be anything wrong with his Angel, especially to someone in the golf club.

“You haven’t seen her in a mood.”

Pa didn’t answer.

“There are other things to be concerned about, you know, apart from when Ilse might be coming back.” I’d been listening from the hall. I turned away and went up to my room.

• • •

A couple of days later, the Daily Mail came out against Trippies. We didn’t have that paper at home but it was being passed around in the playground when I got to school. There was a banner headline: TRIPPY BRAINWASH?

Underneath they asked, IS THIS SHOW A MENACE TO OUR YOUNG? They went on to quote from a couple of psychologists, saying the Trippy cult could be dangerous because it was developing a fanatical following which showed signs of getting out of hand. They gave examples of children behaving in ways which made Angela’s craziness seem dead normal. One boy had tried to burn the house down when his Trippy tapes were taken from him; and a girl of thirteen had almost killed her father with a kitchen knife. They claimed things were even worse in other countries: in the United States and Germany, kids were leaving home in droves to live together in Trippy communes. As fast as they were brought back, they took off again.

One of the Trippy fans at school produced a lighter, and set fire to the newspaper in the playground. The rest watched it flare up; their faces were like some I saw in a movie about people burning witches.

They were still muttering at the beginning of first class, which happened to be physics. The noise didn’t stop when Wild Bill came in, and I expected him to erupt. He was tight on classroom discipline. Instead he looked at the Trippy fans in a funny way, fondly almost.

He said, “I saw you burn that evil newspaper. They had one in the common room, and I burned it, too.” The Trippy fans were still cheering him when the school secretary, Mr. Denlum, knocked and entered. He was a little man and timid, especially where Wild Bill was concerned. He went close and whispered something. Wild Bill smiled contemptuously.

“If the headmaster wishes to see me, I am of course at his disposal.” He told us to get on with our work and went out, with Denlum creeping after him. At the door he stopped and turned round, still smiling. He cried out, shouted almost, “Hail the Tripod!” • • •

Trippies were the lead in the television news that evening. They showed a mob of them rioting outside the Daily Mail offices, and scuffles when police tried to disperse them. There were Trippies being dragged into police vans, a policeman with blood running down his face. The announcer said that another mob had assembled outside the editor’s home. Windows had been smashed and Tripod figures daubed on the walls.

“In the House of Commons this afternoon,” he went on, “the prime minister said that the situation is being closely watched. There is particular concern that the practice of Trippy cultists banding together to live communally has now spread to this country. It is reported that there are several groups in London, squatting in empty flats and offices, and that similar communes have been set up in a number of provincial cities, including Birmingham and Exeter.” Martha said, “I can’t think why they’ve let things get this far. It needs tackling with a firm hand.” “Easier said than done,” Pa said.

“That’s the whole trouble. Too much saying, too little doing.” The news reader started talking about stocks and shares and a financial panic, and Angela, who had been sitting staring at the screen, got up and left the room. Martha and Pa went on talking about the rioting. She was getting angrier, and he was agreeing; he never liked being on the wrong side of her for long. He was saying yes, the Trippy Show should be banned, when I heard the front door open and close.

I said, “That was Angela.”

Pa turned to me. “What?”

“Just then. Going out.”

He asked Martha, “Did she say anything to you?”

“No. I suppose she could have gone to Emma’s.”

Emma was a friend of hers in the village.

I said, “There was that bit on the news, about a Trippy commune in Exeter.” “She couldn’t—” Martha began. Pa went for the front door, and I followed him. Emma’s house was a couple of hundred yards to the left. Angela was heading right, in the direction of the bus station.

• • •

Pa needed my help in bringing her back; she fought for some time before suddenly going slack on us. He carried her to her room, and Martha and I watched her. She lay staring at the ceiling. When Pa came back she didn’t answer his questions, didn’t look at him or even move. Dr. Monmouth turned up a few minutes later. He lived close by.

He was a small man, shorter than Pa, with a pink and white baby face and wispy hair. He spoke fast, stammering a bit. Pa explained what had happened.

When he’d examined Angela and shone a light in her eyes, he said to Pa, “As you know, I use hypnosis sometimes. As we both know, it’s not a line you care for. If you like, I’ll sedate her and refer her to a p-pediatrician. But I would like to try hypnosis. It might just give us an idea what’s troubling her. M-may I?” Pa said reluctantly, “I don’t suppose it can do any harm.”

“I’m sure it can’t.”

Dr. Monmouth got her to sit up, handling her gently but firmly. From his bag he produced a steel ball on a chain and began to swing it in front of her. I’d seen something similar on a show, but it was interesting to watch, and listen to his voice, gentle and monotonous: “You are feeling sleepy . . . sleepy . . . sleepy. . . . Your eyelids are getting heavy. . . . Your eyes are closing . . . closing. . . . You are asleep. . . .” I was getting drowsy myself.

Dr. Monmouth slipped the ball in his pocket. He said, “Angela. Can you hear me?” In a thick voice she said, “Yes.”

“Is there anything you have to do—you m-must do?”

No reply.

He said, “Tell me. What is it you have to do?”

She said slowly, “Obey the Tripod.”

“What does that m-mean, Angela?”

“The Tripod is good. The Tripod knows best.”

“Best about what?”

“About everything.”

“So what do you do?”

“I do what the Tripod tells me.”

“And who told you this?”

“The Tripod.”

“Did the T-Tripod tell you to run away from home and join the Trippies?” “Yes.”

Dr. Monmouth held her wrists in his hands. “Listen, Angela. Listen carefully. There is no Tripod. You have never watched the T-Trippy Show. There is no T-Trippy Show. You don’t like watching television. You are your own person, and no one, nothing, can rule your mind. Now, I am going to count to five, and on the count of five you will wake up, not r-remembering the words I’ve said, but r-remembering what I’ve told you. One, two, three . . .” Her eyes opened on five. She said, “What is it?” She looked at us standing round the bed. “I’ve not been ill or anything?” He smiled reassuringly. “Just a turn. You’re all right now. Fit for anything. Want to watch t-television?” “No.” She shook her head violently. “No, I don’t.”

• • •

Angela stayed in her room, rearranging her dolls. She had more than a dozen, and I realized it was weeks since she’d played with them. I went down with the others, and Pa poured them drinks.

“I’m still not sure I know what that was about.” He handed a glass to Dr. Monmouth. “She’d been previously hypnotized by someone else? But who?” “You heard her: the Tripod.”

Martha said, “That’s ridiculous. The Tripods were destroyed. By the television show, do you mean? Is that possible?” Dr. Monmouth took his drink. “Hypnosis is a state of artificially induced sleep or trance, in which the subject is susceptible to suggestion. There are various m-methods of inducing it. I’ve never known of it being done through television, but I wouldn’t rule out the possibility.” “But the actual suggestion,” Pa said, “how would that work?” “It could be subliminal: a message flashed onscreen for a microsecond. Reinforced by the spoken message, ‘Hail the T-Tripod.’ It’s interesting that it affects some people and not others. But so do other things, of course. Strobe lighting doesn’t bother m-most people, but induces epilepsy in a m-minority. It could be the result of a minor cortical irregularity. A difference in alpha rhythm, perhaps, which makes them susceptible.” “But done by whom,” Martha demanded, “the Russians?”

“I suppose that’s possible. But the show originated in the United States.” “Why would the Americans want to do such a thing? It makes no sense.” “There have been experiments in the past with subliminal suggestion in advertising. M-maybe somebody’s preparing the launch of a T-Tripod toy, and the p-project got out of hand. Or maybe it’s like the mass hysteria you get with pop stars—hysteria and hypnosis both involve surrender of the will—and by some freak it’s got tied in with this particular show.” Pa asked, “Which do you think?”

“I don’t know. There’s a third possibility.”

“What?”

“Television signals aren’t stopped by the ionosphere. The show originates in America, but the suggestions could be superimposed from somewhere else.” He paused. “F-from space.” Martha shook her head. “Now that really is ridiculous.”

Pa said, “From whatever was behind the Tripods, you mean? It’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it? The Tripods were a joke.” “Scientific knowledge doesn’t have to follow the pattern we’re familiar with. The Incas had a superb road system, but didn’t m-manage to invent the wheel. The fact of using something as clumsy as a T-Tripod doesn’t mean they might not be a long way ahead of us in studies of the m-mind, and mental processes.” Pa shook his head. “An advertising gimmick getting out of hand sounds more likely.” • • •

The television news was full of Trippies, demonstrating and chanting about the Tripod and clashing with the police. And not just in England; there were similar scenes from America and Canada, Australia and Europe. There were rumors it was happening behind the Iron Curtain, too, but we weren’t shown any of that.

The media had invented the name Trippy, and they called the demonstrations Tripping. The Trippies took it up themselves, and started singing a new song to one of the minor tunes on the Trippy Show.

“Trip, trip, trip with the Tripod . . .”

Then suddenly the Trippies were on the move. It began in London. We watched the report on early evening television, and it was like a mass migration. They had managed to pick up cars and vans from all over the city and were moving out into the country. Others waited by the roadside. The weather was terrible, with rain slashing out of a black sky and a near-gale blowing. They stood patiently in the rain, wet, bedraggled, uncomplaining. Many of them carried hand-lettered signs and banners: HAIL THE TRIPOD! THE TRIPOD LIVES! or just a drawing of a Tripod. Cars and vans driven by other Trippies stopped to pick them up, and crawled on, overloaded. The police watched but didn’t try to do anything.

I thought about it when I went to bed. I didn’t know whether or not to feel sorry for them. It had looked a miserable scene, but they hadn’t seemed miserable. I wondered what it was about. Could Dr. Monmouth be right about hypnosis through signals from space? But what for? Why a mass exodus like that? I remembered that lemmings went in for mass migrations. They wound up in the sea.

Presumably Angela could have been among them if Dr. Monmouth hadn’t broken the spell. Some of the Trippies had looked no older than she was. The thought was chilling.

In the morning I woke early. I switched on breakfast television and stared at the screen in disbelief. A Tripod stood center screen, with sodden, gray-green fields behind it. Small dots swarmed like bees about the gigantic feet.

The newscaster was talking in a breathless, unsteady voice.

“The second Tripod invasion is amazing enough in itself—and there are landings reported in Germany and the States—but this—how would you describe it?—parade of welcome? This really is incredible. . . .” The camera zoomed into close-up. The swarm of dots turned into people. Hundreds . . . thousands of them, waving and cheering and brandishing Trippy signs.