The Pool of Fire (The Tripods) (12 page)

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?”

“A message, Master. It is . . .”

Three of us, simultaneously, grabbed for tentacles. Fritz leapt and the other two heaved his legs higher still. It was over almost at once. Fritz struck hard at the weak spot and with a single ear-splitting howl, the Master collapsed, sending us sprawling with a last convulsive action.

We had thought the second one might be more of a problem, but in fact he proved easier. He came around from behind the machine, saw us standing by his fallen colleague, and asked, “What happened here?”

We made the ritual bow of reverence. Fritz said, “The Master is hurt, Master. We do not know how.”

Once more their absolute confidence in the devotion of their slaves gave us the chance we needed. Without hesitation or suspicion, he came forward and bent down slightly, probing at the other with his tentacles. That
brought the openings which were his nose and mouth within reach of Fritz’s fist without him having to jump. This one dropped without even crying out.

“Drag them out of sight behind the machine,” Fritz ordered. “Then get on with the work.”

No urging was necessary. We had about half an hour before the third Master came back. Two worked in the tunnel, bringing the containers out along the narrow ledge; the rest of us carried them, two at a time, from there to the drinking water conduit, and tipped them in. There were about a hundred containers altogether. A dozen trips should do it. The colorless liquid splashed into the water, mixing in without a trace. I ticked off my staggering runs. Nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . .

The tentacle caught me without my even seeing it. The Master must have come to the top of the ramp and for some reason paused to look down, instead of proceeding with the usual slap of feet, which we would have heard. It was the supervisor, making one of his periodic visits. He obviously saw the procession of slaves with containers, saw the contents being tipped into the conduit, and was curious. He came down, spinning—which was their equivalent of running and was almost silent because only the point of one foot made intermittent contact with the ground. His tentacle tightened around my waist.

“Boy,” he demanded, “what is this? Where are the Masters?”

Mario, who had been directly behind me, dropped his container and jumped at him. He was gripped by the second tentacle in midair. The one that held me bit
in, squeezing breath from my body. I saw the other two coming up, but could do nothing. I heard myself scream as the squeezing became unbearable. With his third tentacle, the Master flailed at the Dutch boy, Jan, tossing him, as though he were a doll, against the nearest machine. He then picked up Carlos with it. The three of us were as helpless as trussed chickens.

He did not know of the two in the tunnel, but that was small consolation. They would be bound to check the water. We had come so close to success, and now . . .

Jan was struggling to his feet. I was upside down, my masked head brushing against the lower part of the Master’s body. I saw Jan get a hand on something, a bolt of metal, about six inches long and a couple of inches thick, which was used for adjusting one of the machines. And I remembered—before he was switched to this expedition he had been preparing for a possible entry in the Games . . . as a discus-thrower. But if the Master saw him . . . I reached down and wrenched at the nearest stubby leg, trying to dig my nails in.

It had as little effect as a gnat biting a cart-horse. He must have been aware of it, though, because the tentacle tightened again. I yelled in pain. The agony increased. I was on the point of blacking out. I saw Jan twist his body, tense it for the throw. Then came oblivion.

•  •  •

I recovered, to find myself propped against one of the machines. Rather than waste time trying to revive me, they had, very properly, got on with the job. I was bruised and when I drew breath it was like inhaling fire.
The Master lay not far from me on the floor, oozing a greenish ichor from a gash just below the mouth. I watched, dazed, as the last of the containers was tipped in. Fritz came up, and said, “Get all the empty containers back to the tunnel, in case another of them comes.” He saw that I was conscious. “How are you feeling, Will?”

“Not so bad. Have we really done it?”

He looked at me, and a rare grin spread over his long face.

“I think we have. I really think we have.”

•  •  •

We crept quietly up the ramp, and away. Out in the open, a Master saw us but paid no attention. Both Jan and I were walking with difficulty, he with a badly bruised leg and I with a stabbing burning pain that came with every breath and every movement. This was not remarkable, though; many slaves were crippled in various ways. The third Master had been dragged behind the machine to lie with the other two. It was almost time for the fourth one to return from the garden-pool. He would find them, and perhaps raise an alarm, but the machines would be running as usual, and producing pure water. The contaminated water was already on its way through the pipes to taps all over the City.

•  •  •

We put a good distance between ourselves and the purification plant. We went to a communal place, to freshen up. I drank water, but it tasted no different. From tests on Ruki, the scientists had worked it out
that quite a minute proportion of alcohol had a paralyzing effect on them, but I wondered now if what we had managed to put in was enough. With our masks off, Fritz ran his hands over the upper part of my body. I winced, and almost cried out.

“A fractured rib,” he said. “I thought so. We will try to make it more comfortable.”

There were spare masks in the communal place. He ripped one up, and used the material to make two bandages which he fixed above and below the place where it hurt most. He told me to breathe out as far as possible. Then he tightened and knotted the bandages. It hurt more while he was doing it, but I felt better after that.

We waited half an hour before going out. The Masters were tremendous consumers of water, never going longer than an hour without drinking. We walked about, and watched, but nothing seemed to have changed. They passed us with their usual arrogance, their contemptuous disregard. I began to feel despondent again.

Then, passing a pyramid, we saw one of them come out. Mario gripped my arm, unthinkingly, and I winced. But the pain did not matter. He teetered on his three stubby legs, and his tentacles moved uncertainly. A moment later, he crashed and lay still.