The Pool of Fire (The Tripods) (15 page)

The communal places inside the pyramids were still barred to us. We found stores of food, though, in open warehouses, and broke open the crates to eat it. There were drinking fountains in several places, put there to serve the thirst of passing Masters, and we drank from them. The bodies of the Masters themselves lay scattered about in the growing dark. We were joined by more and more of the Capped. They were shaken and bewildered, and some had been injured by fragments of the falling dome; we cared for them as best we could. Then we settled down to endure a cold spring night. It was not pleasant, but at least stars shone overhead, the diamond-bright stars of earth.

In the morning, shivering, Fritz and I discussed what to do. We still could not get through the Entering Hall without a slow and arduous process of breaking down doors, and the door in the Wall, that admitted the Tripods, would be a well-nigh impossible proposition. We could escape by way of the river, of course, but that,
too, would not be easy—in my own case, possibly suicidal. I said, “We could tie things together to make a rope—there are stocks of the material they used to make clothes for the slaves—let ourselves down from the blockhouses . . .”

“It would take a long rope, “ he said. “I think it might be worse than the river. But I’ve been wondering . . .”

“What?”

“All the Masters are dead. If we were to start the pool of fire again . . .”

“How? Remember Mario.”

“I do. The power killed him. But that switch was meant to be used.”

“By a tentacle. They are of a different substance to our flesh. Perhaps the power does not run through it. Are we to chop off a tentacle, and use it to push the lever up?”

“It is an idea,” he said, “but not what I had in mind. The fire was on when Mario grasped the lever. It died slowly. If it also starts slowly . . . Do you see what I mean? There might be no danger until the fire is burning.”

I said slowly, “You could be right. I’ll do it.”

“No,” Fritz said decisively. “I will.”

•  •  •

We went down the ramp into the Hall of the Machines. The darkness was absolute, and we had to guess our way toward the central pyramid. There was a strange smell, like rotting leaves, only more pungent, and when I had the misfortune to stumble over the body of one of the Masters I realized where it was coming
from. They were beginning to decompose, and I suppose it was more evident down here than out in the streets.

We missed the pyramid completely the first time, and came up against the banks of machines in one of the hemispheres beyond. Our second attempt was more successful. I touched smooth metal, and called out to Fritz to join me. Together we felt our way around to the side with the entrance, and through the maze of concentric pyramids. It was no darker here, of course, than anywhere else in the Hall, but I was more afraid. The confinement, perhaps, had something to do with it—that, and the fact that we were approaching the pit where the fire had burned.

As we came to third entrance, Fritz said, “You stay here, Will. Come no farther.”

I said, “Don’t be silly. Of course I’m coming.”

“No.” His voice was flat and final. “It is you who are being silly. If anything goes wrong, you are in charge. A safe way out of the City will still need to be found.”

I was silent, recognizing the truth of what he said. I could hear him edging his way around, avoiding the central pit. It took a long time, because he went cautiously. At last, he said, “I have reached the column. I am feeling for the switch now. I have got it. I have pushed it up!”

“You are all right? Get away from it, just in case.”

“I have done that. But nothing is happening. There is no sign of the fire.”

Nor was there. I strained my eyes into blackness. Perhaps it had been out for too long. Perhaps there was
something else that needed doing, which we could not begin to guess at. His voice showing his disappointment, Fritz said, “I’m on my way back.”

I put a hand out, and he grasped at it. He said, “It will have to be the rope, or the river. It is a pity. I had hoped we could control the City.”

I thought at first it might be my eyes playing tricks with me, showing spots of brilliance as they sometimes do in darkness. I said, “Wait . . .” And then, “Look!”

He turned with me, and we both stared. Down in what must be the bottom of the pit, a spark flickered into being, followed by another and another. They grew, ran together, began glowing brightly. The fire spread and leaped as we watched, and the hissing noise began. Then the whole pit was shimmering with it, as radiance filled the room.

The Masters were dead, but
the City lived again.

The leaden weight dragged at us as before but we did not mind that. In the Hall outside, the yellow-green lamps glowed, and the Machines hummed with their ceaseless mysterious activity. We went up to the streets and, finding a carriage, climbed in and drove along to where we had left the others. They stood and goggled at us. At the perimeter of the City, a green fog was rising, showing that the machine which produced the Masters’ air had also begun working again. But it did not appear to be a danger. It simply rose up through the shattered dome, and was lost in the sky’s immensity.

We collected what followers we could, and set out once more for the Entering Place. This time, the door worked at the touch of a button. Inside, we found the
Capped whose duty had been to prepare new slaves. They were bewildered, and the air was not good after eighteen hours, but otherwise they were all right. It was they who showed us how to operate the room that moved, and the opening of the Wall.

I said, “Tripods . . . Many of them will have been caught outside. They may be waiting there. If we open up . . .”

“Waiting for what?” Fritz said. “They know that the dome is wrecked.”

“If the Tripods come in, the Masters in them may have masks. And the machine that makes their air is still working. They could do something—perhaps repair things.”

Fritz turned to the one who had showed us how the Wall was made to open. He said, “The Hall of Tripods has human air. How did they get into the part where they could breathe?”

“The Masters’ door in the hemispheres fitted against ports high up in the inner part of the Hall. They could step through.”

“Did the ports open from the outside?”

“No. From here. We pressed a button to open them when the Masters commanded us.” He pointed to a grille in the wall. “Their voices came through that, though they themselves were outside in the Tripods.”

“You will stay here,” Fritz said, “with a few others that you can choose. Later, you will be relieved, but until then your duty will be to see the ports are kept closed. Is that understood?”

He spoke with the authority of someone who expects obedience, and his order was accepted without demur. The four of us left from the six who had invaded the City were treated altogether with deference and respect by the others. Although no longer forced by the Caps to think of the Masters as demigods, they felt awed by our having fought against them and destroyed them.

The rest of us went down through the room that moved, and came out into the Hall of the Tripods. The yellow-green lamps were on, but their light was lost in the daylight that shone through the open section of the Wall, a gap more than fifty feet wide and twice that in height. Ranks of Tripods stretched away along the Hall, but motionless, and presumably untenanted. In their presence we were pygmies again, though conquering pygmies. We walked through the opening, and Jan clutched my arm. Directly outside another Tripod looked down at us.

Fritz cried, “Prepare to scatter! As widely as you can. It cannot catch us all.”

But the Tripod did not move, and its tentacle hung flaccid and lifeless. As the Masters within must be. After a few moments we knew this was so, and our tension relaxed. We walked, unconcerned, under its shadow, and some of those who had been Capped climbed up on the great metal feet, and shouted and laughed for joy.

Fritz said to me, “I should have thought they would have enough air, and food and water, to survive longer than that. In fact, they must have, since they go on journeys that last for days, or even weeks.”

“Does it matter?” I said. “They’re dead.” I was tempted to join those clambering on the Tripod’s foot, but told myself it would be childish. “Perhaps of broken hearts!”

(And perhaps my jest was not so far from the truth. We found later that all the Tripods had stopped working within a few hours of the fire going out in the City. Our scientists examined the bodies of the Masters inside them. It was impossible to tell how they had died, but it may have been through despair. Their minds were not like ours.)

The day was bright, as though in celebration of our victory. Great fluffy clouds hung white in the heavens, but the areas of blue were larger still and the sun was rarely hidden. The breeze was slight, but warm, and smelled of growing things and of the spring. We made our way around the Wall’s circumference, back to the river and the outpost from which we had set out. Figures waved to us as we approached, and I realized again that the days of hiding and subterfuge were over. It seemed that the earth was ours.

André was there. He said, “Good work! We thought you might be trapped inside.”

Fritz told him about restarting the pool of fire, and he listened intently.

“That’s even better. The scientists will go mad with delight. It means their secrets are open to us.”

I stretched, and then winced as I was reminded of my ribs. I said, “They’ll have time enough to study them. We can take things easy now.”

“Not easy,” André said. “We have won here, but there may be counterattacks.”

“From the other Cities?” Fritz asked. “How long will it be before we have news from them?”

“We have it already.”

“But the pigeons could not travel so fast.”

“The invisible rays are much faster than pigeons. Although we dared not use them to transmit messages, we have been listening to those the Masters sent. They have stopped from two Cities, but are still coming from the third.”

“The one in the east?” I suggested. “The little yellow men failed then . . .”

“No, not that,” André said. “The one in the west.”

That was the attack in which Henry would have taken part. I thought of him, and of the two we ourselves had lost, and the bright day seemed to cloud over.

•  •  •

But Henry was still alive. Two months later, at the castle, he told the other three of us—Fritz, Beanpole and me—about it.

From the start, things had gone wrong for them. Two of their six had developed, at the last minute, a sickness which was common among humans in that part; and their places had been taken by two others who were less well trained. One of these had got into difficulties during their attempt to swim up the underground tunnel, forcing them to turn back and try again the following night. Even when they had gained access to the City, there were irritating setbacks and delays. They had difficulty in finding a warehouse with sufficient supplies of starch foods to make the mash
for fermentation, and when they did succeed their first efforts were failures, because some of the yeasts would not grow. They had also been unable to find a hideout within close reach of the water purification plant, which meant a lot of exhausting transportation of the liquor by night.