When the Tripods Came by John Christopher

have got her number.”
    “Yes. But if you don’t have radar, you’ve got to catch your chicken before you can chop it. They’d have needed to overtake her and flag her down. They could have come round to see her afterwards, but they’d have known her age from the registration details and I don’t suppose they fancied lecturing a sixty-year-old woman for outdriving them.”
    We hit heavier seas, and he eased the throttle.
    “The reason I mention it is that I think I’d have been right, then. In a normal law-abiding world it’s better to toe the line, and come to heel when the man in uniform calls you. But that world’s gone, for the time being at least. From now on it’s safer to follow Martha’s policy—turn a blind eye and put your foot down.”
    I said, “No sign of anything coming after us so far.”
    “Good. Keep your eyes skinned.”
    Martha had gone below with Angela, who, like Use, tended to be seasick even in good weather. I felt my own stomach heaving as we hammered away from the comparative shelter of the shore. I held out for quarter of an hour, and had the satisfaction of seeing Andy dive for the rail before I did. Not long after, Pa handed me the wheel and went to be sick aswell. Martha was the only one who seemed unaffected. She brought us mugs of steaming tea, lurching precariously with them across the tilting deck.
    Gradually the prospect of pursuit faded; the sea stretched gray and empty all round. Or almost empty—we saw a couple of cargo ships battling their way east and another heading west. Pa observed that trade must drop off when you couldn’t guarantee into whose hands a cargo would fall. Time passed slowly, no less slowly for the battering the Edelweiss was taking. Martha eventually produced stew, which I ate hungrily and then regretted.
    At last there was the long shadow of Alderney on the port horizon, and not long after, Guernsey started to take shape ahead. It seemed an age before we were in the Russell channel, another before we rolled towards the beckoning arms of the harbor.
    I felt weak and tired, but cheerful. We’d made it, in lousy weather, and we could relax. I’d always felt safe in Guernsey. Guernsey was different, a place where people drank the Queen’s health not as Queen but as Duke of Normandy, because the islands were part of the dukedom which conquered England back in 1066. The mainland, Trippies, and civil war seemed very far away.
    Pa throttled back to the four knots which was the harbor speed limit. A uniformed figure watched from the quay, by the harbor master’s office.
    Pa shouted up to him, “Edelweiss from Exeter, visiting. OK for a berth?”
    “You can take K3. Know your way?”
    “I know my way,” Pa said.
    “Good. Welcome to Guernsey.”
    He called out something else which a gust of wind took away. Pa cupped an ear, and he shouted it more loudly.
    “Hail the Tripod!”
    • • •
    No one spoke as we chugged in. The harbor was less busy than in summer but otherwise unchanged. In the marina, tall masts swayed in long ranks. A lot of yachts wintered here. Traffic crawled as usual along the front, and the roofs of St. Peter Port rose in tiers behind. Above the crest of the hill the sky was lighter; it looked as though the sun might be breaking through.
    When we’d tied up, Pa took us to the forward cabin.
    He said, “I had the glasses on people onshore. You can’t always tell, obviously, but I’d say at least ten percent are Capped. And the real trouble is the Capped are in charge.”
    Andy said, “We only know for certain that they’re running the harbor.”
    Pa shook his head. “In an island this size it has to be all or nothing. They’ve taken over.”
    Angela said, “Can we go to the cottage? I’m tired.”
    Her face was white, eyes heavy. I didn’t feel all that bright myself.
    Martha said, “If they’ve got Guernsey, I supposethey must have Jersey as well. But maybe not the smaller islands. There’s Alderney and