When the Tripods Came (10 page)

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 crucial. 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.”

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.

Munching a biscuit, he said, “Funny that, looking back. I mean, why bother?”

Pa said, “You’re happy now to stay on the local run?”

Hardy paused before answering. “I’ve spent years ferrying people around the sky at hundreds of miles an hour. What’s the point? They’d be just as happy where they are. Happier. My wife’s got a share in a farm, and I think I’d rather help out with that than fly. People don’t need airplanes, or cars and trains for that matter. Do you know what I
would
like? A horse and trap. I’d really like that.”

He did another computer reading in midflight, which showed fuel was lower than predicted.

“Getting towards touch and go,” he said casually. “Paris would be easier.”

Pa didn’t answer right away. I wondered if he was waiting for Hardy to add something, or reconsidering the situation. Geneva meant Ilse for him, and escape from the Tripods for all of us. It also might mean taking a chance on the lives of everyone on the plane.

“We stick with Geneva,” he said at last.

Hardy nodded. “OK, Geneva. Let’s hope this head wind gets no worse.”

No more was said. I started remembering all the movies about air crashes I’d seen. One time at Andy’s house, his mother had talked about her fear of flying. She wouldn’t go anywhere if she had to travel by plane. I’d thought it weird at the time, but I didn’t now. We were up here in this metal tube, miles high, and if the fuel ran out, our chances of survival were just about nil. I visualized the petrol tanks emptying, second by second, and began to sweat.

I thought, too, of what Hardy had said of his feelings since being Capped. He seemed happy. And if the Tripods really were bringing peace, surely that was a good thing? Peace was about people liking one another; and perhaps in a way that meant they didn’t get hooked on one particular person and forget about others.

Moonlight provided a hazy view of snow-covered mountains, and Hardy started the landing procedure. That didn’t improve matters; if anything it made them worse. As the undercarriage went down, one of the engines coughed, picked up again, then spluttered into silence. I was really terrified now. I shut my eyes as the landing lights appeared in front, and they were still shut when the wheels bumped down onto the tarmac. I felt suddenly weak with relief.

Hardy taxied the plane to a standstill close to the
terminal building, and I found something else to worry about. The airport authorities knew about the hijack, of course, but we had no idea what their reaction to it was going to be. All the communications with flight control had been formal, concerned with getting the plane down. It seemed a long time before the doors were opened, and we were ordered to disembark. I could see Pa chewing his lip.

I’d thought they might separate us from the crew and the rest of the passengers, but after Pa had handed Martha’s gun over we were all taken through the arrival area to a smaller lounge, where there were soldiers with automatic rifles.

A senior officer said, “You will please remove the Caps from your heads.”

Captain Hardy said, “No. That’s impossible.”

“At once.”

Hardy said, “I ask permission to refuel and take my plane and passengers back to Guernsey.”

“Permission not granted. Take off Caps.”

We four had pulled the helmets off our heads, but none of the others made a move. The officer barked a command in German, and two soldiers advanced on Hardy.

He backed away as they approached, and shouted to the officer, “You have no right to touch us! I insist you give us petrol and clearance to return.”

The officer ignored him, and the soldiers kept coming forward. The vicar who had talked to Martha in Guernsey was standing close by.

He stretched out his arms and said, “We bring you peace. Put down your weapons, and accept this blessing.” He made a gesture, of three downward strokes, with his right hand. “In the name of the Tripod.”

As the soldiers grabbed his arms, Hardy went berserk, tearing himself free and punching one of them in the face. The rest of the Capped rushed forward, screaming.

I heard Martha’s voice, above the din. “Quickly! This way—”

We made for the door through which we’d entered. Two soldiers raised their automatics. Pa said, “We’re not Capped. Look.”

He tossed his on the ground; but they still kept their weapons trained on us. Behind, the screaming was punctuated by a single shot, and then by a rattle of automatic fire. I looked back to see a couple of the Capped on the floor. Captain Hardy, blood pouring from a wound in his neck, was one.

It was quickly over. Shocked into silence, the rest stared dumbly at the soldiers, two of whom took hold of a man about sixty, and pulled him to one side. He started to cry as one of them tore off his Cap, and went on crying as they moved on to their next target. It was a dreadful noise, which got worse as others had their Caps forcibly removed. They offered no further resistance, but it was like listening to animals being tortured.

The officer in charge came to us.

“You will be escorted to the debriefing room.” His voice was cold. “Obey all orders.”

Pa said, “We damaged the Caps so they wouldn’t work. We’ve not been under Tripod influence.”

The clipped voice did not change.

“Obey orders.”

• • •

They interviewed us separately, and at length. Eventually we were given food, and taken to a hotel for the night. When Pa asked to be allowed to telephone Ilse, he was refused. There was a telephone in the bedroom he shared with Andy and me, but it wasn’t connected.

Next morning Pa and Martha were interviewed again, and after that we were taken before a stiff little man with a black beard, who told us we’d been granted permission to stay in the country for seven days. We were free to travel to Fernohr, but must report to the police as soon as we got there. He pushed across a piece of paper which was our authorization.

Pa said, “And after seven days?”

“The position will be reconsidered. You are aliens who have entered this country illegally. You would be returned to England, except there are no flights at present. I must warn you that any failure to obey police instructions will result in immediate deportation for all, to any country which will accept you.”

“Can we keep the Caps we were wearing—the ones that don’t work?”

“Why?”

“In case we need them again.”

“There are no Tripods in Switzerland, so you will not need them.” He shrugged. “It has been established that they are harmless. Keep them if you wish.”