When the Tripods Came

  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.”

  • • •

  Martha sold more gold to get Swiss money, and we took a train to Interlaken. The track ran beside the lake, which stretched as far as the eye could see. The day had started cloudy but now both sky and lake were clear and blue, with just a few clouds over the mountain peaks on the far side. Pa had a relaxed look. There was plenty to relax from—the hijack, fear of the plane crashing, and then the business at the airport. Things were different in real life from television—the gunshots more deafening, the blood brighter red and spurting horribly.

  As I was thinking there was also, for him, the prospect of being with Ilse again, he said to Angela, “We’ll see Mutti in a few hours. I wonder if she’ll recognize us after all this time.”

  “Of course she will,” Angela said. She was eating an apple. “It’s not that long.”

  Martha was looking out of the window. Between us and the lake there were houses, with children playing, a frisking dog, smoke rising from a chimney.

  She said, “It has a nice safe look. Do you think we’ll be given that extension?”

  Pa stretched. “I’m sure of it. You get the bureaucrats at airports. Local police are different.”

  The train stopped at Lausanne, where the timetable scheduled a thirty-minute wait.

  I asked Pa, “Can Andy and I have a look around? We’ll be back in plenty of time.”

  “Better not, just in cas
e.”

  I thought quickly. “I’d like to see if there’s something I can get as a present for Ilse. It’s her birthday next week.” Angela wasn’t the only one who could play that sort of game.

  He hesitated, but said, “All right. As long as you’re back in a quarter of an hour.”

  Martha said, “I don’t think you’ll be able to buy anything with English money.”

  “I was wondering if you’d change some for me?”

  “And how long before I’m able to use what I change?” She smiled and fished in her wallet. “But I suppose I asked for that. Twenty francs—it’ll have to be something small. You’d better have a bit to spend, too, Andy.”

  Angela said, “And me.”

  I said, “No. You stay here.”

  “If you’re going, I can.” Her eye had a steely look. “It isn’t fair if you get a present and I can’t. She’s my mother!”

  I argued, but didn’t expect to win. Martha gave her twenty francs as well, and she tagged after us while we explored the station. We found a little shop, and I wondered whether to get Ilse chocolate, or a doll in peasant dress. While I was deciding, Angela bought one of the dolls, so it had to be chocolate. There were two sizes, at nine francs and nineteen. I asked for the smaller, then changed my mind and picked the other.

  I’d been vaguely aware of people gathering near us. The voice immediately behind startled me. “Sales Anglais!” I knew that was French for “dirty English,” but if I hadn’t, the tone of voice would have given me a good idea.

  He was about sixteen, tall and dark-skinned, wearing a red jersey with a big white cross, the Swiss national emblem. There were others with similar jerseys in a mob of a dozen or more, mostly about his age but a couple younger, and one man with a gray beard who looked about fifty. Those that didn’t have jerseys wore red headbands with white crosses.

  Andy said quietly, “Let’s get out of here.” He moved towards the platform, but the tall boy blocked his path.

  Another, shorter and fair-haired, said,’“What are you doing in our land, filthy English?”

  Andy said, “Nothing. Going back to the train.”

  Someone else said, “Filthy English on clean Swiss train is not good.”

  “Look,” Andy said. “That’s twice we’ve been called filthy English.” He’d raised his voice. “The next one gets hit.”

  There was silence for some moments. I thought he’d got away with it, and Andy must have, too. He pushed forward against the tall boy, forcing him to give ground. A gap in their ranks opened, but only for a second. One grabbed his arm and swung him round; another kicked his leg viciously, bringing him down.

  As he fell, Angela screamed. I caught her arm and pulled her in the opposite direction. They were concentrating on Andy, and it looked as though I might succeed in getting her away, but Angela yelled again and I saw the man with the beard grabbing her from the other side.

  After that there was confusion in which I kicked and punched at shapes around me and got kicked and punched in return. One blow to the neck made me stagger and struggle desperately to keep on my feet. I’d had a glimpse of Andy on the ground, grunting as they kicked him.

  I had my arms over my face, trying to protect myself. There was shouting, mixed up with the boom of a loudspeaker announcing trains. I realized the punching had stopped, but flinched as someone seized me roughly. I opened my eyes to see a gray-uniformed policeman. Two others were lifting Andy, and the red jerseys were scattering into the crowd.

  Angela seemed unharmed. Andy was bleeding from the mouth, and there was a cut over one eye and another on his cheek. When I asked him how he felt, he said, “No sweat. I’ll live. I think.”

  The police escorted us back to the train. I told Pa what had happened, while Martha cleaned Andy up. The police demanded details of our journey, and checked passports.

  During the scrutinizing, Pa asked, “What are you going to do about them?”

  “These children are your responsibility,” the senior policeman said. He had a round face and small eyes, and spoke English slowly but well. “You have permission to proceed to Fernohr. Report to local police on arriving.”

  “I wasn’t talking about these children.” Pa was chewing his lip again. “The ones who attacked them—what are you doing about them?”

  “We do not know their identities.”

  “Did you make any attempt to find out?”

  “And we do not know if there was provocation.”

  “Provocation! The children were buying presents for their mother—who happens to be Swiss—when they were called filthy English and set upon. I thought this was a civilized country.”

  The policeman cocked his head, small eyes staring.

  “Listen, Englishman. This is a civilized country. And a country for Swiss people. We do not need foreigners here. Do you wish to make a complaint?”

  Martha said, “Forget it, Martin.”

  The policeman rocked on his heels. “If you wish to make a complaint, you must leave the train and come with me to police headquarters. You will stay there until my superintendent is free to see you, and discuss this complaint. I do not know how long that will be, because he is a busy man. Well, Englishman?”

  Pa said, tight-voiced, “No complaint.”

  “Good. Make sure that no one of your party causes more trouble. I wish you a safe and swift journey—back to England.”

  As the train started, Pa said, “I don’t understand it.”

  Martha said, “I never did like the Swiss.” She added, “Apart from Ilse, of course.”

  Andy said, “I did say I’d hit anyone who called us dirty English again. That’s when they came at us. I’m sorry if it caused the trouble, but I didn’t see how I could have just listened and said nothing.”

  “No,” Pa said. “I know what you mean. But we may have to do just that—listen and say nothing—in future. It’s a different kind of xenophobia from the brand we found in Guernsey, but it’s still xenophobia.”

  Angela asked, “What’s zenner-foe-be-ar?”

  “Fear of foreigners. Fear and hatred. It can be valuable, protection for the tribe, and it can also be nasty. It’s a funny thing. On the surface what we saw in Guernsey seems better—people just wanting to be left alone to live their own lives—while here it’s aggressive: a positive urge to attack foreigners. But this one’s healthier. The Swiss have wrapped themselves up in being Swiss and hating anyone who isn’t. It’s tough on us, but it may be a good protection against the Tripods.”

  He and Martha went on talking about it as the train picked up speed. We could see the lake again, flat, calm and peaceful, with two or three small boats and an old-fashioned paddle steamer making stately progress towards Geneva. I was thinking of my part in the proceedings. I’d tried to get Angela away because she was a girl (and my half sister) and needed protecting. That had also meant leaving Andy to the mob; I hoped he understood why. One eye was nearly closed from the swelling round it. He saw me looking, and winked with the good one.

  • • •

  Pa had telephoned Ilse from Geneva, and when the train stopped at Interlaken she was on the platform. She kissed Martha and hugged Angela, but her eyes over Angela’s shoulder were on Pa. Then she and he moved towards one another slowly. She put her hands out, and his hands took them. They stood close together, smiling, for some moments before he kissed her.

  It was Ilse who eventually broke away. She was smiling and crying at the same time. She turned from my father to look at me.

  “Lowree,” she said. “Oh, Lowree, I cannot say how good it is seeing you again.”

  She came towards me, and I put my hand out.

  “Good seeing you, too.”

  It was funny. I’d put my hand out so she wouldn’t kiss me, and I hadn’t thought I meant it about being glad to see her. But in a way I was.

  EIGHT

  Fernohr was a little mountain village, built round a single road with a wooded slope above it on one side and a stagger
ing view down into a valley on the other. The road from Interlaken ended there, or practically ended. It continued up the hillside as an unpaved track, giving access to half a dozen dwellings, and finally to the Gasthaus Rutzecke.

  The first Rutzecke house had been built by Ilse’s grandfather as a vacation spot for the family, but between the world wars her father rebuilt it on a larger scale, as a guesthouse. It had eight bedrooms and a couple of lounges, and a terrace in front where there was a telescope and a pole flying the Swiss flag.

  The Swigram had stopped operating it as a guesthouse when the Swigramp got ill. The only person living there apart from family was a handyman called Yone, even older than the Swigramp. He also looked after the animals—chickens and two cows that ambled round the sloping meadows with bells round their necks—and shot game for the pot. He had an old shotgun he tended lovingly.

  The Swigram was white-haired and plump. She spoke little English, and seemed a bit in awe of Pa and more so of Martha, who spoke to her kindly but rather in the way she’d spoken to the daily help back home.

  There was snow the second day, but it thawed almost immediately. Ilse said it was warm for the time of year. I looked longingly at the rack of skis in one of the sheds, and meanwhile Andy and I explored around. The terrain was fairly dull above the chalet, cropped grass and boulders, but more interesting below the village, where there were pine woods and some good climbs. The lake was visible down in the valley, and we could watch boats crossing, through the telescope. It was coin-operated, but the box was open; so you just put the same twenty-centime piece through over and over again.

  We also helped Yone with the chickens and cows. The chickens sometimes laid astray, and we had to hunt for the eggs. And the cows had to be found and brought in at night. I tried to talk him into letting me use the shotgun, but he wouldn’t. It wasn’t a wildly exciting life, but pleasant enough. The Swigram was a better cook than Martha, too.