The Pool of Fire (The Tripods) by John Christopher Page B

nearer. For the whole of the last fifty yards, I thought I was finished. Perhaps the Tripod was playing with me, like a great steel cat with a frantically scurrying mouse. (That was what Beanpole suggested afterward.) All that I knew then was that my legs were desperately aching, my lungs, it seemed, on the point of bursting. I became aware, as I neared the edge of the pitfall, of a new hazard. I had learned the trail from horseback height, and the change in perspective was utterly confusing. At the last moment I recognized a stone, and made for it. I was on the causeway. But I stillhad to get across, and the Tripod had to follow.
    I knew I had succeeded in my task when, instead of the stamp of a metal foot, I heard a ripping noise behind me, and at the same time felt the surface collapse beneath my own feet. I grabbed at a branch which had been woven into the camouflaged surface of the pit. It came away, and I was falling again. I seized another branch, of thorn, and it held longer, though lacerating my hands as I gripped it. While I was thus perilously suspended, the sky darkened over me. The surface had yielded beneath the foremost leg of the Tripod, with the second leg in midair. Off-balance, it was plunging forward, with the hemisphere swinging uncontrollably across and down. Looking up, I saw it hurtle past, and a moment later felt the shock of its impact with the solid ground on the far side. I myself was hanging halfway up the pit, at grave risk of falling the rest of the way. No one was going to come to my assistance: they had more important work to do. I collected my scattered senses and climbed, slowly and gingerly, up the tangled web of reeds and branches.
    By the time I reached the scene, things were well under way. The outer door had fallen open with the shock, and Fritz led the team with the metal-cutting machine inside and set to work on the inner door. They wore masks, for protection against the green air which eddied out as the machine penetrated the metal. It seemed a long time to those waiting, but in fact it was only a matter of minutes before they were through and tackling the dazed occupants. Fritz confirmed that one of them was definitely alive, and they pulled the maskthat had been prepared over his head and tied it tight around his middle.
    I watched as they heaved him out. A cart had been drawn up close, and on it stood the vast crate—of wood, sealed with a tar which would keep the green air in and our own out—which was to take him. He was pulled and pushed and at last dropped in, a grotesque figure with his three short stumpy legs, tapering conical body, three eyes and three tentacles, and that green reptilian skin I remembered with such lively horror. The top dropped down on the crate, and more men got to work, sealing it. Then the word was given to the men on the horse teams, and the horses pulled away, dragging cart and cargo toward the beach.
    The rest of us cleared our traces, as far as possible, from the scene. The Masters, when they came on the broken Tripod, could no longer doubt that they were facing organized opposition—this was no casual haphazard thing such as our destruction of a Tripod on the way to the White Mountains had been—but even though it amounted to a declaration of war, there was no point in leaving unnecessary clues. I should have liked to bury Crest, but of course there was no time. In case the trick might serve again, we sponged the green dye from his body, and left him there. I walked a little apart from the others as we came away, not wanting them to see my eyes.
    The cart was hauled out through the waves until the water lapped against the chests of the horses. The fishing boat had a shallow enough draught to get alongside, and the crate with our prisoner was winched on board.Viewing the smoothness of the operation I was more than ever impressed by the planning that had gone into it. The horses were unharnessed and led ashore; from there they would be scattered