The City of Gold and Lead (The Tripods) (21 page)

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Authors: John Christopher

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Two Go Home

Down, down, into darkness.
The current tugged me, and I went with it, pulling myself through the water in a crude and feeble attempt at swimming. I swam forward as well as down. My hand touched something and, as my shoulder banged painfully against it, I knew I was at the Wall. But still unbroken, with no sign of an opening, and the current still dragging down.

Possibilities and fears crowded in on me. The water might flow out through gratings, which I would be unable to remove. Or there might be more nets, and I would tangle myself in them. There was a pressure of air in my lungs, the beginning of a roaring in my head. I breathed out a little, and drew a small breath of air in. Five minutes, Fritz had said. How long had I been under already? I realized that I had no idea—it might
be ten seconds, or ten times that. Panic, the fear of drowning, clutched me, and I wanted to turn and swim back up, against the pull of water, up to the surface where I had left Fritz.

I swam on and down, trying to blank my mind to everything but the need to hold on. If I abandoned the attempt now, we were lost, anyway. And we must not lose. One of us had to get through. Far above me there was a dim green radiance, but darkness was all around and below me, and I was diving deeper and deeper into it. I took another shallow breath, to ease my aching lungs. I wondered if already I were past the point of no return. Then there was turbulence, the current breaking up and changing direction. I reached forward, and there was still an impassable solidity. Down, down . . . to an edge, an opening. The tide took me into it and I realized that now, finally, I was committed. The current was stronger, more closely channeled. I had to go on, because there was no hope of getting back.

So I swam and was carried along, in utter blackness. I took shallow breaths when I felt I must. Time, as it passed, became more and more immeasurable. There was a sense of having been hours down here, not minutes. Occasionally I bumped my head against the hard surface above me; if I pushed down a foot or two I could touch the bottom. Once my outstretched hand brushed against a side wall. The conduit was about five feet across.

Shallow breaths were no longer enough: I had to inhale more deeply. And this did not help, either. I was breathing in my own exhaled breath. I felt a hammering
inside my head. A blackness was growing there, to match the blackness of the water. I was in a trap with no way out. I was finished in fact; and so was Fritz, and those we had left behind in the White Mountains—all mankind. I might as well give up, stop struggling. And yet . . .

It was the faintest of glimmerings at first, something that only inextinguishable optimism could read as light. But I flailed on with weary arms, and it grew. Brightness filtering through—white light, not green. It must be the end of the tunnel. The pain in my chest was savage, but I found I could ignore it. Nearer, brighter, but still out of reach. Another stroke, I told myself, and another, and another. The brightness was right over me, and I kicked and fought my way up to it. Brighter and brighter, and a bursting through to the eye-piercing brilliance of the open sky.

The sky, but not the air for which my tortured lungs were crying out. The sealed mask held me. I tried to release the buckle of the belt, but my fingers were too feeble. I was being carried downriver, the mask buoying me up. Buoying, and also suffocating. I tried again, and failed again. What a terrible irony, I thought, that I should have got so far, only to choke to death in freedom. I clawed at the mask ineffectually. I was filled with a sense of failure, and shame, and anger and then the blackness, for so long barely held at bay, swooped down and swallowed me.

• • •

My name first being spoken, but from a long way off.

“Will . . .”

There was something wrong about that, I thought drowsily. It was my name, but . . . pronounced in the English fashion, not with the initial “V” to which I had grown accustomed since we had been speaking German. Was I dead, I wondered? In Heaven, perhaps?

“Are you all right, Will?”

Did they speak English in Heaven? But it was English with an accent—a voice I remembered. Beanpole! Was Beanpole in Heaven, too?

I opened my eyes, and saw him kneeling above me, on the river’s muddy bank. He said, with relief, “You
are
all right.”

“Yes.” I gathered my scattered senses. A bright autumn morning—the river flowing beside us—the sun, from which my unaccustomed eyes automatically turned away—and, farther off . . . There was the great rampart, topped by the vast green crystal bubble. I really was outside the City. I stared at him.

“But how did you get here?”

• • •

The explanation was simple. When Fritz and I had gone, taken by the Tripods, he had intended to go back to the White Mountains and tell Julius what had happened. But he had not been eager for it, and had stayed in the town a few days, listening for anything that was said that might be useful. One thing he learned was the approximate site of the City, and he thought he might as well go and take a look at it. It lay, he was told, across a tributary of the great river down which we had come together. He took the hermit’s boat, and paddled south and east.

Having found it, he decided to survey it. He dared not risk approaching the Wall by day, but on nights when there was moonlight—some, but not too much—he made his investigations. The result was not encouraging. There was no break in the Wall, and no hope of scaling it. One night he dug down several feet, but the Wall continued still farther, and he had to fill in the hole and leave as dawn broke. None of the Capped approached the City, so he was safe from their attentions. There were farms within reach, and he lived on what food he could pick up or steal.

Once he had been right around the City, there seemed little point in staying on. But it was then that the thought occurred to him, too, that if anyone were going to escape, the river provided what was probably the only route. Its waters, plainly, were waste from the City—nothing grew on the banks for a mile downstream, there were no fish, though plenty in the stretch of river above the City, and he found strange items of debris from time to time. He showed me some—various empty containers, including a couple of empty gas bubbles, which ought to have gone into one of the waste-disposal cupboards but had found their way into the river instead. One afternoon, he saw something quite large floating in midstream. It was too far for him to see clearly, particularly since his eyes, without his lenses, were weak, but he took the boat out and salvaged it. It was of metal, hollow so that it floated, measuring some six feet by two, and a foot thick. If that could come out of the City, he argued, a man could. Because of that, he resolved to take up a position where
he could watch the outflow—watch, and wait.

And so he had stayed there, while the days and the weeks went by. As time passed, his hopes that one of us might get away dwindled. He had no notion of what things were like inside the City: we might have been discovered to be falsely Capped on the first day, and killed. He stayed on, more, he said, because leaving would mean abandoning the last shred of hope than because hope had anything to feed on. Now, with the autumn, he realized that he could not delay much longer if he were to get back to the White Mountains before the heavy snows. He had decided to give it another week, and on the morning of the fifth day had seen something else floating down river. He had taken the boat out again, found me, and with a knife ripped open the soft part of the mask to let me breathe.

He said, “And Fritz?”

I told him, briefly. He was silent, and then said, “What do you think the chances are?”

I said, “Not good, I’m afraid. Even if he finds his way back to the river, he’s much weaker than I am.”

“He said he would try in three days?”

“Yes, three days.”

“We’ll keep a close watch. And your eyes are better than mine.”

We gave him three days, and three times three days, and three days beyond that, each time finding a less convincing argument for our vigil. Nothing came out of the City, that we could see, except ordinary debris. On the twelfth day, there was a snowstorm, and we huddled, shivering, cold and hungry, under the
upturned boat. The next morning, without discussion, we set out under a watery sun peering through gray clouds, toward the great river and the south.

Once I looked back. Alongside the river the snow was melting, but the land still stretched bare and white on either side. The river was a gray arrow in an alabaster desert, pointing to the circle of gold and the dome of green crystal. I lifted my arm; it was still a positive joy to be free of the leaden weight which had crushed me for so long. Then I thought of Fritz, and the joy was turned to sadness, and a deep and bitter hatred against the Masters.

We were going home, but only to arm ourselves and others. We would come back.

Also by John Christopher

The White Mountains

The Pool of Fire

When the Tripods Came

A Dusk of Demons

SIMON PULSE

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Book design by Ann Sullivan

The text for this book is set in New Caledonia.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Christopher, John.

City of gold and lead / John Christopher.

p. cm.

Sequel to: The white mountains.

Sequel: The pool of fire.

Summary: Three boys set out on a secret mission to penetrate the City of the Tripods and learn more about these strange beings that rule the earth.

ISBN 0-689-85505-2

ISBN 978-1-4814-0912-4 (eBook)

[1. Science fiction.] I. Title.