فصل 5

chapter FIVE

More went missing from school. You couldn’t be sure if they were Tripping or just staying away because things were in a mess. Very little work got done, anyway.

In assembly the Head Man gave us a warning about people who might try to Cap us. It seemed Uncle Ian wasn’t the only one around carrying rubber helmets. We were to report anyone acting suspiciously.

I was standing next to Hilda Goossens, who sniffed and said, “Silly old twit!” “Why?”

“As if we need to be told.”

“Someone said they saw Wild Bill hanging about school this morning. If he spots you, he might decide to Cap his pet genius.” “I don’t think so.”

“My uncle nearly managed it, with me.”

She just looked at me pityingly. I wondered what it must be like to be Hilda Goossens and so sure of yourself about everything. The Head Man droned on. He was thin and anxious, white-faced and white-haired (what there was of it), due for retirement at the end of the school year. I wondered about being like him, too—just about able to cope under normal conditions, without things like Tripping to contend with.

What I was suddenly aware of was the importance of their being whatever each of them was—cocky and contemptuous, or bothered and beaten—as long as it was something they’d come to in their own way: the importance of being human, in fact. The peace and harmony Uncle Ian and the others claimed to be handing out in fact was death, because without being yourself, an individual, you weren’t really alive.

The first class was meant to be chemistry, but there was no sign of the chemistry teacher. Hilda Goossens and a couple of others got on with their assignments. The rest of us talked. We stopped when the door flew open. It wasn’t Mrs. Green, though, but a hairy little Welshman called Wyllie, who taught physical exercise.

He shouted, “Right! School dismissed. Everybody out.”

Andy asked, “Why?”

He said importantly, “Police warning. The Exeter Tripod’s on the move. The path they’ve plotted takes it a couple of miles north, but they want everyone out of the area as a precaution. Get cracking.” A boy called Marriott said, “I live in Todpole.”

Todpole was six miles north of the school. Wyllie said, “Well, you can’t go there. They’re evacuating along the route. It will probably be OK in an hour or two, but check with the police.” In the bike shed I waited while Andy fiddled about. The shed was empty before he straightened up. I said, “Come on—we’re last.” “I’ve been thinking.”

I said impatiently, “You can bike and think at the same time, can’t you?” “I wouldn’t mind having a look at it.”

It took me a moment to realize he was talking about the Tripod.

“There’ll be a roadblock.”

“We can get round it.”

Can, not could. And we, which meant there was no way of backing out without looking chicken.

I said, “I don’t suppose it’s any different from the one we saw.” “No, I don’t suppose it is.” He wheeled his bike out of the shed. “I’d still like to take a look.” • • •

It was a bright day but the wind, blowing a swirl of leaves from the side of the road, had a wintry edge. There weren’t many people about, and they were all going the opposite way.

We found the roadblock half a mile out of town. A patrol car was slewed across the road with a policeman standing beside it smoking a cigarette, and another at the wheel. It was fairly obvious which way we’d need to go to get past it. To the left the ground fell away in open fields, but the higher ground on the right was wooded.

I said, “What about the bikes?”

“No sweat. Stick them in the ditch.”

Mine was new from my birthday a month earlier, a racer I’d been wanting a long time. I laid it down carefully by the roadside. We got through a gap in the hedge and made for the trees. Once under cover we stayed close to the edge of the wood. We passed within a hundred yards of the patrol car. The policeman who was smoking glanced our way but gave no sign of seeing us.

If we were invisible to him, the same would presumably apply to the Tripod, which made me feel better. I even began to feel lighthearted. There were bird sounds—a blackbird, the rowdy clatter of a pheasant. Normal country stuff. This was probably a wild goose chase, anyway—a wild Tripod chase. Even if it had moved it might stop again, as the one on the moor had, or change course. The trees ended, and we ducked under a fence into a field where Friesian cows were grazing. Here high ground on our left gradually fell away, giving a view across open country. You could see for miles—fields, copses, farmhouses. In the distance, sunlight dazzled from a river.

But there was something else in the distance, too, catching the sun with a colder gleam. And moving our way; I heard the thump of its passage above the noises of birds and cows.

Andy said, “The hedge.” We ran thirty meters across open meadow, and dived under. I wondered if it had seen us; it was still far off, but we didn’t know its range of vision. I hoped we were hidden now. Andy squirmed forward to a position where he could look out, and after a moment’s hesitation I wriggled after him, scratching my wrist on a bramble.

He whispered, “I’d forgotten how comic it looks—like a mechanical clown.” The three legs, swinging in succession, produced a motion which was a cross between lumbering and mincing. It did look ridiculous. And even though each stride covered ten or more meters, its progress seemed slow and laborious. The thumping rhythm was louder, and I caught the buzz of a helicopter, presumably shadowing it. I thought of the grace and speed of a Harrier fighter plane, and couldn’t understand why this ugly thing was being allowed to bestride the land—why no one had ordered a strike the moment it moved away from its Trippies. Then, as it got closer, I could see the small specks clinging to the gigantic feet. It had brought its disciples with it. And I could hear them, singing and shouting, the words indistinguishable but the voices wild and cheerful.

“How are they managing to hang on?” Andy asked.

“I don’t know.” A foot slammed down, another lifted and soared across the sky, and my stomach lurched with vertigo. “I think it’ll miss us by quite a bit.” I was relieved, though, when Andy nodded agreement. “By a hundred meters, I’d say. But keep your head down.” I didn’t need telling. We watched the Tripod hammer its way across the valley between us and Todpole. A foot landed in water which jetted up, sparkling like diamonds. The Trippies burst into what sounded like a hymn. Then, as the next foot reached its high point, something detached and fell. The singing didn’t even check as a figure dropped to earth in the next field, like a stone.

We waited till the Tripod was out of sight before going to see. It was a girl about sixteen, wearing jeans, her legs horribly jumbled. I thought she was dead as Andy bent over her. But she wasn’t quite. She whispered “Hail the Tripod.” Her lips barely moved, but she was smiling. The smile faded, and she really was dead.

• • •

The Tripod furthest from London had moved first, the others setting off in turn in what appeared to be a concerted march on the capital. The one on Farnham Common was the last to go, and that was when the air force was let loose. They didn’t show anything on the news, but it was announced that all Tripods in Britain had been destroyed. They added that similar action had now been taken in other countries. The crisis was over. The world was finally free of Tripods.

I guessed why, although the attack on the first Tripod had been televised, these weren’t. It had been a desperate decision to make. Many of the Trippies clinging to them must have been killed, and they wouldn’t want to show that. It was awful thinking about it, especially since some of them could have been people I’d known. There had been no news of Andy’s mother, for instance. The fact that they probably died happy, like the girl in the field, didn’t make it any less terrible.

Over the next few days things were claimed to be returning to normal. It was odd, though, that so little was being said, when one remembered the fuss after the first invasion. I supposed it was to do with censorship. But why was the censorship still necessary?

Wild rumors started. One was that the royal family had Tripped and barricaded themselves inside Windsor Castle, where they were building a landing pad for the third wave of Tripods. Another said the third wave had already arrived and taken over an entire country, France in one version, the United States in another. As Pa said, censorship encouraged people to believe nonsense.

But, apart from the rumors, strange things were happening. People were still disappearing. In Boulder, the nearest market town, more than a hundred went at a single go. Everyone, it turned out, who had been to the Chinese take-out that evening. The following day, the county library van called at our local branch, and left taking two staff members and five people who’d just been in changing their library books. And two days after that, Todpole was declared Tripod territory. There was a big HAIL THE TRIPOD sign on the approach road, and no one was allowed in without a Cap. Caps were handed out at the roadside.

That evening Pa brought out the briefcase Uncle Ian had left. He said, “The Tripods gave them to the Trippies, and the Trippies distributed them. I don’t know how many of these things there were originally, but I think there may be a lot more now.” Andy asked, “How? With all the Tripods knocked out.”

Pa held up a helmet. “Simple molding and wiring, a few transistors—something that could be made by Trippies in a back room. Maybe in hundreds of back rooms, all over the world.” “Get rid of it,” Martha said with loathing.

He looked at it speculatively. “I don’t know.”

Martha said, “I do! I want it out.”

I asked, “How do you think they work?”

Pa shook his head. “No one’s ever been sure how ordinary hypnosis works. But since it’s a state in which people are controlled by suggestion, this could be something that induces trance—through radio waves acting directly on the electrical centers of the brain, perhaps—coupled with the command to obey the Tripods. And that command wouldn’t just apply to a minority, like the one carried by TV, but to anyone wearing a helmet.” He turned it over, examining it.

“The wiring looks like a circuit. It could be linked to a control station in a satellite, or the Tripods’ mother ship. In which case, breaking the circuit might put it out of action.” “Just get it out of the house,” Martha said.

“But how do you get them off the Trippies’ heads to do that? Oh, well.” He dropped the helmet back in the briefcase. “I’ll shove this in the shed for now.” • • •

I picked up the telephone the next time Ilse rang.

She said, “Lowree? It is good to hear your voice. You have grown, I bet. It seems so long since I see you. How do things go? We have bad reports of England—of these Trippy people, and much trouble—fighting and such.” “It’s not so bad,” I said. “You want Pa? I’ll call him.”

“In one moment. First I talk with you. How is it at school?” “A bit disorganized.”

“But you are doing your work for the examinations? It is important not to lose the Rhythmus. . . .” I didn’t see why she had to use a German word instead of the English, rhythm. Her accent, her voice altogether, irritated me as much as ever. And I didn’t see what right she had to go on about my schoolwork, anyway. She was only pretending to be interested.

I handed over to Pa and went to my room. Andy was there, using my computer. He asked if I minded and I said no, but I thought he could at least have asked first. I tried to read but the key clicks bothered me, so in the end I went down to the living room again. Martha arrived from the kitchen at the same time, for her evening drink.

Pouring it, Pa said, “Ilse sends her love.”

“She rang? I wish you’d told me. I’d have liked a word about a plate we picked up in Bath last year. I didn’t think my memory could get worse, but it does.” “We were cut off. And that was her fifth try at getting through today. The lines are in a mess.” He paused. “She told me some things I didn’t know: there’s no censorship there. In America there’s an order for police and troops to shoot anyone Capped on sight—shoot to kill.” “It’s time we did the same,” Martha said.

“The Swiss think we will, any day now. Listen, Martha . . .” She looked up from a magazine. “What?”

“Ilse thinks we ought to join her, in Switzerland.”

“That’s ridiculous. Now the government’s finally taking things seriously, this business will be over in no time. It would make more sense for Ilse to come back here. If her father’s hung on this long, he’s obviously not dying.” They argued for a time, but Martha won. That didn’t surprise me—Martha usually did win that son of argument. And as far as my father was concerned, I felt it was not so much the Trippies that bothered him as Ilse being away. If she came back, it would be as good as us going out there. He said he’d try to get back to her. Martha said it might be a good idea to call the airport first and check seat availability.

He got through to the airport reservations desk fairly quickly, and I heard him ask the position on flights from Geneva. It seemed a routine conversation, but he put the telephone down abruptly.

“Well?” Martha asked.

“Flights to and from Switzerland are suspended.”

“It’s probably temporary, till things get sorted out.”

I could see from Pa’s face there was more to it. “The booking clerk said something else as well. Not in any special way, just as a routine remark at the end. He said, ‘Hail the Tripod.’ “ • • •

One of the things I didn’t enjoy about sharing a room with Andy was that he woke so early. He didn’t make a big performance about getting up, but, in a way, that was worse—half waking and hearing him moving around quietly, carefully closing the door when he went to the bathroom and opening it even more gently when he came back. I’d been awake in the night, thinking about Tripping and the Caps, and this morning his pussyfooting irritated me more than usual. I was pondering the chances of getting him moved into Martha’s spare room, though without much optimism, when he called, “Laur!” He was by the window.

I said peevishly, “What is it?”

“Planes.”

I heard the faint roar and ran across the room. We had a good view, and I saw two fighters sweeping in over the hills beyond Todpole. I forgot being annoyed in the pleasure of looking at them, so fast and beautiful compared with the lumbering Tripod. And they, or planes like them, had smashed the Tripods. What did it matter if a few people were going around in trances, with power like that on our side?

“Fantastic!” I said.

“More, over there.”

He pointed south. A squadron of three were flying towards the first two. Joining up with them, I guessed. I went on thinking that until the rockets started to explode. It didn’t last long. One of the two burst into a blossom of orange and red, and the other roared off to the west with the three attackers banking to pursue it.

I said in a whisper, “What’s that about?”

But I knew. All five had been Harriers, with air force markings. Which of the sides was Capped and which free I’d no idea, but one thing was certain: military power was divided now, between them and us.

The order came in a radio announcement; television had vanished in a welter of jammed transmissions. All free citizens were to take immediate action to help counter the activities of the Capped. This must involve total cooperation with the armed forces and police, who had authority to restore order by any means at their disposal. The situation was difficult, but could be overcome by free men and women fighting in defense of liberty. Meanwhile, the use of all sea and air routes was confined to government-authorized personnel. As far as possible, people should remain in their homes, avoid using motor transport except for emergencies, and listen for official announcements.

The statement was repeated, and then the frequency our set was tuned to went dead. We found the station again, but it was soon swamped by the grinding buzz of a jammer. The next station we caught was different, with an announcer talking enthusiastically in a Yorkshire accent. Victory for the free people of the world was at hand! All must go forth, prepared to sacrifice everything, their lives if necessary, in the cause. Very soon now we would know the peace and harmony mankind had been vainly seeking since the dawn of history. Hail the Tripod!

Pa and Martha were drinking whiskey. Martha quite often had a drink during the day, but Pa never did, except on holiday. He poured another for them, and said, “It may be grim for a day or two—even a week or two. Food may get difficult.” He handed her the drink. “The last word was to stay put. I suppose we have to, but I don’t like it.” “Nor do I. Doing as you’re told is what takes sheep to the slaughterhouse.” “But there’s no alternative, is there? We can’t get out of the country. The Trippies have got control of Heathrow, and even if other airports are free, we can’t use them now because of the ban on travel. At least we’re better off here than in a city.” Martha said, “I’ve never liked being forced into things.”

He said, exasperated, “Does anyone? But you have to face facts.” She emptied her glass. “Face them—and count them. Especially the ones that are on your side. No air or sea travel, from airports or docks, they tell us. If we had a field, and a private plane, no one could stop us leaving the country.” “Since we haven’t . . .” He stopped. “You mean—the Edelweiss? We’d never get to her. There’s probably half a dozen roadblocks between here and the river.” “We’d have to try, to find out.”

“But even if we did, and got her to sea, where do we head for?” “I can think of one place. It’s well away from this mess, and I have a house there.” He looked at her without speaking.

In the end, it was I who said, “Guernsey.”

Pa said nothing.

Martha asked, “Well? Why not?”

“It’s breaking regulations.”

“That’s what the dog tells the sheep when it steps out of line.” He said, “I suppose if things get nastier in the next day or so—or no better—we could think about it.” “There are times when thinking about something is the worst possible policy.” As usual, her voice was firm and decisive. “Let’s do it now.” He looked at her a long time, before finally nodding acceptance. “In the morning?” She put down her glass. “I’ll start getting things ready.”

When she’d gone, Pa poured himself another drink. He looked at a silver-framed photograph on the sideboard—one of Ilse, laughing, in a summer frock. He’d given way, I realized, because Martha was the stronger character, not because he agreed with her. And perhaps because he didn’t want to admit the real reason for not wanting to leave. I thought I knew that, too. It was because this was Ilse’s home. Leaving it meant cutting a link with her, possibly the last one.