The Pool of Fire (The Tripods) by John Christopher

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