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

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 wasa 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, andprayed 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