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

tentacle came toward me, touched me lightly and then more firmly on the arm. It ran along my flesh, like a snake, but clammily, lacking the dry smooth texture of a snake. I repressed a shudder.
    “Move about,” he said. The voice was cold, flat, not loud but penetrating. “Walk, boy.”
    I began to walk around the narrow confines of the cubicle. I thought of a horse sale I had seen once at Winchester—men feeling the muscles of the beasts, watching them parade around the ring. We did not need to be paraded; we could parade ourselves. The Master stood in front of me critically while I made several circuits of the cell. Then, with no other word or comment, he moved on. I stopped walking, and let myself slump back into a sitting position.
    They traveled fast on those stumpy legs, bouncing off the ground with an up-and-down rhythmic motion. They were clearly vastly stronger than we were, to make so light of this leaden City. They could also, when they really wanted to get somewhere fast, spin along like tops, the three legs whirling them round and round and at the same time forward, with yards between each foot touching the ground. I suppose it was their version of running.
    The Choosing went on. Another Master came to inspect me, and another. The boy in the next stall was taken: a Master ordered him to follow and he obeyed. They disappeared in the throng. Some Masters examined me more closely than others, but all moved on. I wondered if they were suspicious—if something in my behavior were not quite right. I also wondered what would happen if I were not chosen at all. It was known that no one returned from the City. In that case . . .
    This particular alarm, I discovered, was unnecessary. Those who were not chosen as personal servants went into a general pool. But I did not know that at the time, and was aware of the stalls emptying around me. I saw Fritz go past, following a Master. We looked at each other, but gave no sign. A Master came up to my cubicle, stared at me for a moment, and went on, without speaking.
    Their numbers had thinned, as well as ours. I sat on the floor miserably. I was tired and thirsty, my legs were aching, and the skin of my chest and shoulders was beginning to sting from the salt of my sweat. I leaned my back against the transparent wall, and closed myeyes. So I did not see the new Master who came, only heard his voice, commanding me.
    “Get up, boy.”
    I thought it was a lighter voice than the others had been. I struggled to my feet, and looked at him.
    Physically, he seemed to be shorter than average, and he was also darker in color. The tinge of brown in the dark green was quite marked. He stared down at me, the skin wrinkling between his eyes, and ordered me to show my paces. I summoned my strength and moved as briskly as I could; perhaps I had been too lethargic for the others.
    I was told to stop, and did so. The Master said, “Come nearer.”
    As I moved toward him, a tentacle snaked out and wrapped around my left arm. I gritted my teeth. A second tentacle stroked appraisingly along my body, assessing my legs, reaching up to wind more closely around my chest in a grip that forced breath from my lungs, then withdrew. The voice said:
    “You are a strange one, boy.”
    The words, summing up my chief fear, petrified me. I stared ahead at the featureless column of the monster. There was almost certainly something I should be doing, showing. Excitement—happiness at the prospect of being allowed to serve one of these absurd and disgusting creatures? I tried to act out that mood. But the Master was speaking again.
    “How did you become a champion at the Games—in which of your human sports?”
    “Boxing . . .” I hesitated. “Master.”
    “You are small,” he said. “But strong, I think, for your size. Which part of the land do you come from?”
    “From the south, Master. Tirol.”
    “A mountain land. They are hardy ones, who come from the high parts.”
    He fell silent then.