The City of Gold and Lead (The Tripods) (9 page)

We had seen Moritz at the barge, but not Ulf, who was off drinking. Moritz was pleased to see us, but
urged us not to stay because Ulf’s anger was still strong, and not likely to be much appeased by our having got here in time after all. Fritz, he told us, had gone up to the Field that morning.

• • •

There were flags and banners in all the towns and villages nearby, and they surrounded the Field like the fluttering petals of a thousand huge and gaudy flowers. Behind and above were the tiers of wood on which people sat and watched, with peddlers moving among them selling trinkets and ribbons, sweetmeats, wine, and hot sausages. Projecting from one side was the judges’ pavilion, with the dais in front to which the winners would come to claim their champions’ belts. To which, we fervently hoped, we ourselves would go.

On the first day, those who were obviously unsuitable were weeded out. We had not felt any doubt that we should qualify, and we did so easily. I was set to box with a boy of roughly my own age and weight, and in less than a minute the judge put an end to the bout and sent me to be weighed and entered. I met Fritz again in the tent which had been set aside for these procedures. He showed neither surprise at my appearance nor curiosity as to how I had got here. I told him Beanpole was here, too, and he nodded. Three chances were better than one. I had the notion, though, that all along he had believed that it was he who would succeed in getting into the City—that we were not to be relied on.

Later, I found Beanpole again: he, also, had qualified
without difficulty, clearing the required distance, in both jumps, by an easy margin. We went together to the dining tent for our midday meal: we were given our food as well as a bed. I asked him how he felt about his chances, now that the challenge was on us. He said seriously, “All right, I think. I did not have to try hard. And you, Will?”

“The one I beat has qualified, too. I saw him in the hut.”

“That sounds good. Do you think we ought to look for Fritz?”

“There’ll be time, later. Let’s eat first.”

• • •

The next morning there was the opening ceremony. People came in procession from the town, carrying the banners of the Games, and the Games Captain, an old white-haired man who was the leader of the officials, made a speech of welcome to the contestants assembled on the Field, full of phrases about sportsmanship and honor.

I might have been impressed if it were not for those others who were also present. During the tournament at the Chateau de la Tour Rouge, one Tripod had stood above the castle, in silent scrutiny of events. Here there were six. They had marched in early in the morning and were already present, lined up around the Field, when we awoke. Words like sportsmanship and honor had a hollow sound when one remembered that the purpose of these sports was to provide slaves for these metal monsters. Slaves, or sacrifices. After all, though hundreds
of men and women each year entered the City, none had yet been known to come out.

There was no boxing on that day, and I was able to watch the preliminaries in the other events. Fritz was entered for the Hundred and Two Hundred Meters races. These were popular lists: for the first there were to be twelve heats, ten entrants in each, with the first and second runners going through to three further races in which the first three qualified. Fritz came second in the fourth heat. This could have been misleading, of course, but it looked to me, watching, as though he were straining hard. The first part of the Long Jump was held in the afternoon, and Beanpole won easily, half a meter ahead of his nearest rival.

My own first trial came the following morning. My opponent was a tall, skinny lad, who moved quickly but was almost entirely defensive. I chased him around the ring, missing occasionally but landing punches more often, and had no doubt about the result. Later in the day I fought again, and again won easily. Beanpole had been watching. Afterward, I put on the track suit which they had given me, and we went to watch the field events. The Two Hundred Meters heats were being run. Beanpole strained his eyes toward the announcement board, but had to ask me which had been reached. I told him Seven.

“Then Fritz has already run,” he said. “His heat was Six. Are the results up?”

“They’re going up now.”

The results board was to one side of the judges’ pavilion. It had an elaborate system of trapdoors and
ladders and ledges behind it, through which a troupe of boys put up the numbers of the winners. The numbers of the qualifiers in Heat Six appeared on the board while I watched.

Beanpole said, “Well?”

I shook my head. “No.”

Beanpole made no comment, and nor did I. Fritz’s elimination from one of his two events was our first major setback, forcing us to the realization that there might be others. It would be sickening if we were all forced back, defeated, from this first obstacle; but the possibility had to be reckoned with.

• • •

And for me, personally, the possibility became very real the next time I fought. This opponent, like the first, was fast, but he was more skilled and much more aggressive. In the initial round he landed several good punches, and made me miss when I counterattacked, once leaving me tangled with the rope. I had no doubt in my mind that I had lost the round, and was in a fair way to losing the contest. When we came out again I concentrated on getting in close and punching to the body. I did better, but I had a feeling I was still behind on points. I went into the last round in a desperate mood. I attacked in a fury which rattled my opponent. He opened up his guard and I caught him with a right to the side of the head which floored him. He got up at once, but he was nervous after that and tried to keep his distance. He was also plainly tiring, probably from the body blows in the previous round.

I was confident, by the time the final bell went,
that I had made up lost ground, but could not be sure how much. I saw the three judges conferring together. They were taking longer than usual about it, and my uncertainty and apprehension curdled into physical sickness. I was trembling when we went back to the center of the ring, and could scarcely believe it when the referee lifted my arm in the sign of victory.

Fritz and Beanpole had both been watching. Beanpole said, “I thought you were going to lose that one.”

I was still feeling shaky, but with relief now. I said, “So did I.”

“You left it late,” Fritz said.

“Not as late as you did in the Two Hundred Meters.”

It was a cheap and silly riposte, but Fritz did not rise to it. He said simply, “That is true. So I must concentrate on the other race.”

His imperturbability, I supposed, was a good quality, but I found it very irritating.

• • •

Two things happened in the afternoon: Fritz qualified for the finals of the Hundred Meters, and Beanpole was eliminated from the High Jump. Fritz again came second, but the winner was yards ahead of him at the tape, and I did not think much of his eventual chances. Beanpole was very depressed by his defeat. Up to the last raising of the bar he had been jumping well and confidently, and seemed certain of going through, but at that point his coordination failed him, and in his first jump he went off at half-cock and ludicrously hit the bar waist-high. His second jump was
a good deal better, but still an obvious failure. On the third, I thought he had cleared it but he must have just caught the bar with his foot.

“Bad luck,” I said.

His face, as he pulled on the track suit, was white with anger against himself.

“How
could
I jump so badly?” he said. “I’ve cleared a lot higher than that dozens of times. And now, when it matters . . .”

“There’s still the Long Jump.”

“I just couldn’t get the lift . . .”

“Forget about it. There’s no point in brooding.”

“It’s easy to say that.”

“Remember what Fritz said. Concentrate on the other one.”

“Yes. I suppose it’s good advice.”

He did not look convinced.

• • •

So we came to the day of the finals. In the evening there would be a procession to the town, where the Feast of the Games was held, with all the competitors honored but the victors in their scarlet belts most of all. And the morning after they would parade on the Field, on show for the last time before the Tripods picked them up to take them to their City.

It had been very hot during the night, and the sky was no longer blue but livid with cloud, which looked as though it might open at any moment to pour down torrential rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance. If it did rain, the events were to be postponed to the following day. I stared at the sky from the door of the hut, and
prayed that it would hold off. I felt I was tensed to the limit already. I tried to force myself to eat some breakfast, but the food would not go down.

Beanpole’s event was scheduled first, mine second, and Fritz’s third. Concentrating on watching him jump was a torment but at least it took my mind off my own prospects. He jumped well, and it was clear that there were only two others who might match him. They were before him in the order, and on the first jump there was a matter of inches between their marks, with the rest out of the running. On the second jump their results were much the same, but this time Beanpole outdistanced them to take the lead. I saw him walk back from the pit, brushing sand from his leg, and thought: he has it now.

One of the others fell badly short on the final jump. But the second, a gangling freckle-faced boy whose hair sprouted in bright ginger tufts through the silver mesh of the Cap, did much better and his jump put him in the lead. The difference was nine centimeters—about four inches by our English measurement—which was not much in itself but disheartening at this stage. I watched Beanpole tense himself, run down the grassy track, hurl his body through the humid air. A cry went up: it was quite clearly the best jump of the day. But the cry turned to a groan of disappointment as the judge’s flag was lifted. The jump had been disqualified, and the ginger-headed boy had won.

Beanpole went off by himself. I followed him, and said, “It couldn’t be helped. You did your best.”

He looked at me with a blank expression. “I stepped
on the board. I haven’t done that since the early days of training.”

“You were putting too much effort into it. It could happen to anybody.”

“Was I?”

“Of course you were.”

Beanpole said, “I wanted to win. And also I was frightened about what came next. I thought I was trying.”

“We could all see you were.”

“In the High Jump,” he said, “I went to pieces at the crucial moment. And this time I got myself disqualified quite stupidly and unnecessarily. I thought I was trying, but was I?”

“What you’re saying is stupid. You were just trying too hard.”

The blankness had turned to misery.

“Leave me alone, Will,” he said. “I don’t want to talk at the moment.”

• • •

The boxing finals were early in the afternoon, and my section provided the second contest. The boy I was fighting was a North German, a fisherman’s son, smaller even than I was, but compact and well muscled. I had seen him box and knew that he was good, a fast mover and a hard hitter.

For the first minute we circled each other warily. Then he came in at me with a quick left and right, which I parried, and I counterattacked, forcing him to the ropes and getting in a right cross to the ribs which
made him grunt as breath was forced from his lungs. But he got away before I could do any further damage. We fought at a distance again, but in the last thirty seconds I carried the fight to him and scored a few times. It was my round, I thought.

I went out confidently for the second. He backed away, and I followed. He was almost on the ropes. I threw a left hook at his jaw. It did not miss by much, but it missed. And the next thing I remembered was lying on the canvas, with the referee standing over me, counting.

“. . .
Drei, vier, fünf
 . . .”

It was an uppercut, Beanpole told me later, which did not travel far and caught me under the chin, lifting and dumping me. All I knew then was that I was simultaneously floating in a haze of pain and rooted to the hard boards beneath me. I supposed I ought to get up, but I did not see how I was going to set about it. Nor did there seem much urgency. There appeared to be long intervals between the words that were being chanted, at once close above me and from an echoing distance.

“. . .
Sechs, sieben
 . . .”

I had lost, of course, but I had done my best, at any rate. Like Beanpole. I saw his set, bitter face through the haze. “I thought I was trying, but was I?” And what about me? I had been hit because I had dropped my guard. Had something at the back of my mind wanted to do that? Was there even now the beginning of a feeling: you did your best and lost, so no one can blame you? You can go back to the White Mountains, instead
of the City of the Tripods. And with it the beginning of a doubt which would not easily be dismissed.

“
Acht!
”

Somehow I got to my feet. I could not see straight, and was staggering. The boy from the North came after me. I managed to dodge some blows and ride others, but I had small idea how. For the remainder of the round he chased me, and once caught me in a corner and gave me a hammering. I did not go down again, but I knew as I sat on my stool and the cool sponge was rubbed over my flesh that I was desperately far behind on points. I would have to knock him out to win.

He realized this, too. After his first probing had established that I was no longer dazed, he did not try to take the fight to me but boxed from a distance. I went after him, but he stood me off. I was gaining a few points, probably, but nothing like the number I had lost. And the seconds were ticking away on the big wooden clock, which stood on the judge’s table and was started at the beginning of each round and stopped three minutes later.

In the end, I grew desperate. I abandoned my own defense, deliberately this time, and went on hitting as fast and as often as I could. Most of my blows failed to land, whereas he got in a couple to the body which rocked me. But I kept on, fighting not boxing, forcing in the hope that somehow something would give. And it did. He measured me for a punch that would have finished the job the uppercut had started, and missed. And I did not miss with my own hook to the jaw. His knees buckled and he went down, and I was sure he
was not going to get up by a count of ten or, for that matter, fifty. The only doubt I had was whether the bell would go before the count was completed—I had an idea we were in the final seconds. But my mind had been playing me tricks. I learned, to my astonishment, that less than a minute had elapsed of this last round.