When the Tripods Came Page 7

  Andy said, “Do you think they’ll send a cutter after us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Pa felt in his pocket for a cigarette, and then a match. I was surprised he was carrying them—he’d given up smoking a year before. He lit up and drew heavily on it.

  “I’d like to tell you a story, Andy—Laurie knows it. Not long after Martha got the Jaguar she took us over to Honiton. It was summer and the main roads were packed, so she used minor roads. They were busy, too, and there was a bend every couple of hundred yards. It was pretty frustrating progress, especially in a car like that. Then, beyond Plymtree, there was a bit of open road with just three cars dawdling ahead of us. She put her foot down. We were doing over eighty when she passed the last of the three and realized what had been keeping the other two back: it was a low-slung police car.

  “If I’d been driving I’d have braked and waited to be pulled up and given a verbal going-over. Martha put her foot right down. They chased her, but she’s a good driver and she had the edge, with that engine. She lost them long before Cheriton.”

  Andy said, “Didn’t they do anything about it? They must have got her number.”

  “Yes. But if you don’t have radar, you’ve got to catch your chicken before you can chop it. They’d have needed to overtake her and flag her down. They could have come round to see her afterwards, but they’d have known her age from the registration details and I don’t suppose they fancied lecturing a sixty-year-old woman for outdriving them.”

  We hit heavier seas, and he eased the throttle.

  “The reason I mention it is that I think I’d have been right, then. In a normal law-abiding world it’s better to toe the line, and come to heel when the man in uniform calls you. But that world’s gone, for the time being at least. From now on it’s safer to follow Martha’s policy—turn a blind eye and put your foot down.”

  I said, “No sign of anything coming after us so far.”

  “Good. Keep your eyes skinned.”

  Martha had gone below with Angela, who, like Use, tended to be seasick even in good weather. I felt my own stomach heaving as we hammered away from the comparative shelter of the shore. I held out for quarter of an hour, and had the satisfaction of seeing Andy dive for the rail before I did. Not long after, Pa handed me the wheel and went to be sick as well. Martha was the only one who seemed unaffected. She brought us mugs of steaming tea, lurching precariously with them across the tilting deck.

  Gradually the prospect of pursuit faded; the sea stretched gray and empty all round. Or almost empty—we saw a couple of cargo ships battling their way east and another heading west. Pa observed that trade must drop off when you couldn’t guarantee into whose hands a cargo would fall. Time passed slowly, no less slowly for the battering the Edelweiss was taking. Martha eventually produced stew, which I ate hungrily and then regretted.

  At last there was the long shadow of Alderney on the port horizon, and not long after, Guernsey started to take shape ahead. It seemed an age before we were in the Russell channel, another before we rolled towards the beckoning arms of the harbor.

  I felt weak and tired, but cheerful. We’d made it, in lousy weather, and we could relax. I’d always felt safe in Guernsey. Guernsey was different, a place where people drank the Queen’s health not as Queen but as Duke of Normandy, because the islands were part of the dukedom which conquered England back in 1066. The mainland, Trippies, and civil war seemed very far away.

  Pa throttled back to the four knots which was the harbor speed limit. A uniformed figure watched from the quay, by the harbor master’s office.

  Pa shouted up to him, “Edelweiss from Exeter, visiting. OK for a berth?”

  “You can take K3. Know your way?”

  “I know my way,” Pa said.

  “Good. Welcome to Guernsey.”

  He called out something else which a gust of wind took away. Pa cupped an ear, and he shouted it more loudly.

  “Hail the Tripod!”

  • • •

  No one spoke as we chugged in. The harbor was less busy than in summer but otherwise unchanged. In the marina, tall masts swayed in long ranks. A lot of yachts wintered here. Traffic crawled as usual along the front, and the roofs of St. Peter Port rose in tiers behind. Above the crest of the hill the sky was lighter; it looked as though the sun might be breaking through.

  When we’d tied up, Pa took us to the forward cabin.

  He said, “I had the glasses on people onshore. You can’t always tell, obviously, but I’d say at least ten percent are Capped. And the real trouble is the Capped are in charge.”

  Andy said, “We only know for certain that they’re running the harbor.”

  Pa shook his head. “In an island this size it has to be all or nothing. They’ve taken over.”

  Angela said, “Can we go to the cottage? I’m tired.”

  Her face was white, eyes heavy. I didn’t feel all that bright myself.

  Martha said, “If they’ve got Guernsey, I suppose they must have Jersey as well. But maybe not the smaller islands. There’s Alderney and Sark. . . .”

  “We’d be pinning ourselves down in a small community. When they do get there—in a few days, perhaps—we’d be sitting ducks.”

  Martha put an arm round Angela, who was sniffling quietly. “We’ve not come this far just to give in.”

  “There’s Switzerland.”

  She said impatiently, “If they’ve taken over the island, that includes the airport. The no-travel regulation may not apply here: as far as the Trippies are concerned I suppose, the more traveling the better. But they’re bound to insist on passengers being Capped.”

  “Yes, I suppose they will.”

  Pa went through to the aft cabin. I wasn’t surprised he’d brought up Switzerland again. For him, getting back to Ilse was more important than the fight against being Capped. No, that was unfair. But very important.

  I was surprised, though, that he’d accepted Martha’s argument so easily. I stared up at feet passing along the quay, and wondered if their owners were free or Capped, and, for the hundredth time, what being Capped must feel like. I was thinking miserably that I was likely to find out before long when Pa returned, carrying Uncle Ian’s briefcase. He lifted one of the Caps out.

  “Basically, it has to be a radio receiver, or something similar. The wiring runs just beneath the rubber. You could snip it with scissors. The Cap would look no different, but it wouldn’t receive. So, no induced trance, no compulsion to obey the Tripod.”

  Andy asked, “Are you sure?”

  Pa shook his head. “Not quite sure. But we could try it on one of us, and find out.”

  I said, “The one who tries it might Trip.”

  “It would be one against four. We can take it off again, by force if need be.” He paused. “I’d volunteer, except that we really want the physically weakest, in case it did come to that.”

  Angela started crying again; I hadn’t realized she was listening, let alone understanding.

  Martha said, “Not Angela. Me, if you like.”

  Andy said, “It’s OK. I’ll do it.”

  Pa wasn’t looking in my direction, but he hadn’t looked at Angela, either.

  I said, “I’m next smallest. Let’s get it over.”

  No one spoke while Pa dug the blade of his Swiss Army knife into the inner surface of the rubber. It took time, but eventually he handed me the helmet.

  “I’ve severed it in two places. That should put it out of action.”

  The thing seemed to writhe in my hands, like a snake. I hadn’t looked at it closely before. It was like a flexible skullcap. Even a few days ago I wouldn’t have believed that this was something which might take away my freedom of thought and will, but I did now. And now it wasn’t easy to believe it could be made harmless so simply. If Pa was wrong and it still worked . . .

  I thought of a time when I was about ten, at a pool with a five-meter diving board. Others had dived from it, but when I climbe
d up the water looked a hundred miles away. I wanted to go back down, but facing the dive was a little less bad than seeing jeering faces. Just a little less. And that had just been physical fear; now I was terrified of losing my mind, my individuality—everything about myself that mattered.

  Another thought followed on: what would happen if they did have to pin me down and take the Cap off? Would doing that remove the Tripods’ command from my mind? There was no Dr. Monmouth to dehypnotize me. What would they do? Tie and gag me to prevent me raising an alarm? And what if it half worked, leaving me part slave and part free? How long before I went mad?

  They were looking at me. If I said any of this, they’d think I was trying to get out of it. They’d be right, too. I thought of the high board, and the heads bobbing in the water. The longer you delayed, the worse it got. I drew breath, and pulled it over my head, dragging it hard down.

  Hail the Tripod.

  I thought I’d said it, thought in despair that I really had handed myself over to the enemy. I imagined the others had heard it too, and waited for them to grab me. Nothing happened. Could it just have been a random thought? I framed Hail the Tripod in my mind, testing myself with sick anticipation. Then I thought deliberately, I hate the Tripod—and felt a surge of relief.

  “Well?” Pa’s voice was anxious.

  “It’s all right.” I realized I was shivering. “It doesn’t work.”

  • • •

  Pa fixed a Cap for himself, and he and I went to the airline ticket office. He asked for five seats on the evening flight to Heathrow. The clerk, who had horn-rimmed spectacles tucked over the flaps of his Cap, punched his keyboard and stared at the screen.

  “Five’s OK, but you’ll have to split up between Smoking and Nonsmoking.”

  “That’s all right.” Pa fished a credit card out of his wallet. The clerk shook his head.

  “No credit cards.”

  “What?”

  “Not while the emergency’s on.”

  “But you’ll take a check?”

  “If it’s on a local account.”

  “I don’t have a local account. I’m on a boat.”

  The clerk gave him a knowing smile. “English? I thought you were. No English checks. Sorry. Hail the Tripod.”

  Pa picked up his card. “Hail the Tripod.”

  The bank was a few doors away from the airline office. Pa wrote a check and passed it to the teller, who gave it leisurely scrutiny before pushing it back.

  “Local accounts only.”

  Pa said, keeping a reasonable tone, “I don’t have a local account. What do I do for money?”

  “You could go back to England.” The teller rubbed a hand across his forehead and over the Cap. He smiled, too, not pleasantly. “We’ll manage without you.”

  At first, Martha refused to believe it. “This is Guernsey, the friendly isle. I’ll get local money. The manager at Barclay’s knows me. He’s been cashing checks for me for over twenty years.”

  Pa said, “You don’t understand, Martha. It’s all changed. If he’s manager still, he must be Capped. And arguing might make him suspicious about your Cap working properly. It’s not just a local rule, but a total change of attitude.”

  “But why? Why should being Capped turn people against foreigners?”

  “I don’t know, but it must be something that suits the Tripods. They could be thinking on the same lines as Julius Caesar with the Gauls: divide and rule. Maybe if they win we’ll wind up all living in villages, instead of cities. It would make it easier to keep us under control.”

  That was the first time I’d heard anyone suggest we might lose. Angela said, “Can’t we go to the cottage?” She sounded frightened, as well as tired.

  Martha said sharply, “They’re not going to win, whoever or whatever they are. How much money do we need for the tickets?”

  “Three hundred would cover it. But . . .”

  She produced a leather bag and rummaged, bringing out jewelry—gold bangles, necklaces, rings.

  “One thing about the antiques trade is that it teaches you the value of portable capital. I’ll get the money.”

  Pa said, “I’ll come with you.”

  She shook her head firmly and reached for one of the Caps. “No, you won’t. I haggle best on my own.”

  • • •

  Two airlines flew between Guernsey and England. Pa tried the other next, in case the first booking clerk was curious about the way he’d found a means of paying. This one took the pile of local notes without query and booked us on the last flight out.

  Before we left the Edelweiss, Pa fixed the remaining Cap for Andy. There wasn’t one for Angela, but he assumed they wouldn’t bother about young children. I looked back at the boat as we climbed the steps at the end of the pontoon—one more thing to leave behind. Whatever lay ahead, apart from what was left of Martha’s jewelry, we were going into it stripped.

  The weather had cleared, and the late afternoon was lit by watery sunshine. The taxi took us up the hill leading out of St. Peter Port, and I recognized familiar landmarks. In the past they’d been part of the excitement of coming on holiday, of anticipating the long days of sea and sunshine. On the left in Queen’s Road was the entrance to Government House. Something new stood beside the gate—a wooden model of a hemisphere supported on three spindly legs. I couldn’t read the lettering underneath, but I knew what it would say.

  We checked in early, and Martha took us to the airport restaurant. She told us to order whatever we liked; the money left over after the tickets were bought wasn’t going to be any use outside the island. She and Pa ordered champagne.

  While the waitress was opening it, a man at another table said, “Mrs. Cordray, is it not?”

  The back-to-front white collar under the black Cap showed he was a clergyman, and I recognized him as vicar of the parish where Martha’s cottage was. He’d visited when we’d been staying there.

  Looking at the champagne, he said, “Something to celebrate?”

  “My birthday.” She smiled convincingly. “Will you have a glass?”

  He did, and they chatted. He’d always been a great talker. In the past, though, he’d seemed anxious to please; now he was sharp, almost aggressive. He asked if we were going back to England, and when Martha said yes he was approving, but in an almost contemptuous tone.

  “Much better, I’m sure. England for the English, Guernsey for the Guernseyman. Things are going to be better in all sorts of ways. My mother used to talk of life in the island in the war, during the German occupation: no motorcars, no tourists. Thanks to the Tripods, it can be like that again. In their blessed shade, we shall find peace.”

  “Do you think they’re going to come back?” Pa asked.

  The vicar looked surprised.

  “The Tripods, I mean.”

  “But they are back! Didn’t you hear the news on Radio Guernsey? There have been new landings all over the world. So now they can complete their mission of helping mankind save itself from war and sin.”

  Martha said, “No, we didn’t know. Is there one in the island?”

  “Not yet. It is something to wait and hope for. Like the Second Coming.” His voice was thick and earnest. “Indeed, perhaps it is that.”

  • • •

  The first throw of the dice was when they called the flight. For as long as I could remember, there had been security checks because of terrorists. Pa had said checks would be unnecessary with everyone Capped, and he proved right. We weren’t even screened for metal. We walked through to the departure lounge and almost immediately after that across the tarmac to the aircraft.

  They were using a Shorts plane, with just pilot and copilot and two stewardesses. The aircraft took off normally, heading west, and when he’d gained sufficient height the pilot banked for the northeasterly flight to England.

  For us it was the wrong direction; each mile flown would have to be retraced. Moreover, not knowing the fuel load, every gallon or half gallon might be c
rucial. Pa got up and walked towards the forward toilet. The stewardesses were at the rear, fixing coffee. Andy and I gave him time to reach the door to the flight deck before following.

  This was the second part of the gamble: would the door be unlocked? Pa turned the handle and threw it open. As the copilot turned to look, Pa pushed through and I went in behind him, blocking the doorway. He pulled Martha’s pistol from inside his jacket, and said, “I’m taking over. Do as I say, and everything will be all right.”

  I had the fear, for a moment, certainty, that we’d got it wrong. In the old pattern, the hijackers had been nutters and the aircrew sane; this time it was the other way about. Being Capped, the pilot would do not what he thought right, but what he thought the Tripods wanted. If the Tripods wanted him to crash the plane, with himself and forty passengers on board, he wouldn’t hesitate.

  Both men were staring at the pistol. The pilot said, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Set a course for Geneva.”

  He hesitated for what seemed a long time. The hope was that, seeing us wearing Caps, he’d have no reason to think we were anti-Tripod. Finally, he shrugged.

  “OK. Geneva it is.”

  SEVEN

  The pilot, Michael Hardy, took being hijacked more easily than I would have expected. He asked Pa why he was doing it, and Pa told him it was because his wife was in Switzerland, and flights there had been suspended. It struck me as a fairly crazy reason, but Hardy accepted it with a nod. I guessed that one of the effects of being Capped could be to make people generally less curious. The stewardesses and the passengers didn’t seem bothered about what was happening, either. The Cap probably worked as a tranquilizer as well.

  Just how unconcerned the pilot was became clear after he’d fed details of the new flight path into his computer.

  He yawned, and said, “Should just about do it.”

  Pa asked him, “What do you mean, ‘just about’?”

  “Fuel. We’ve enough for Geneva, but there won’t be anything over for a diversion. Let’s hope we stay lucky with the weather.”

  One of the stewardesses brought us all coffee, and he talked as we drank it. Flying had been something he’d always wanted to do. As a schoolboy, living near Gatwick airport, he’d spent most of his spare time plane spotting. Until recently, he’d thought of his present job as a stopgap; his ambition was to fly the big trans-Atlantic planes.