Free The City of Gold and Lead (The Tripods) by John Christopher

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 qualifiedwithout 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 hundredsof 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 andladders 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