‘I accept your challenge, Solomon. Let’s decide the outcome of this war here and now,’ he replied.
‘So be it,’ Solomon declared gravely, scarcely able to contain his joy.
The automatons and human soldiers stepped back a few paces, forming a circle around the duellists. The third and final act was about to begin.
Shackleton unsheathed his sword with a graceful movement and made several feints in the air, aware perhaps that he might never again perform the gesture. After this brief demonstration, he coolly studied Solomon, who was trying to strike a gallant swordsman’s pose, but was hindered by his rigid limbs.
Circling the automaton slowly and nimbly, like a wild animal stalking its prey, Shackleton tried to work out where to strike first, while Solomon watched his assailant, sword clumsily raised. Naturally he had given his rival the honour of commencing the duel. With a swift, agile movement, Shackleton traced an arc in the air with his sword, which came crashing down on Solomon’s left side. But the two-handed blow only produced a loud metallic clang, like a pealing bell, that hung in the air for a few moments. Following the pathetic outcome of his first strike, he stepped back a few paces, visibly dismayed: the brutal blow had scarcely made Solomon teeter, while it had almost snapped his wrists. As though seeking to confirm his weak position, Shackleton struck again, this time aiming for the automaton’s right side. The result was the same, but this time he could not afford to brood over it – he had to avoid Solomon’s counter-attack.
After dodging the tip of his sword, which sliced through the air almost grazing his helmet, Shackleton once more put distance between them and, momentarily safe from attack, studied his enemy again, shaking his head slowly in a gesture that betrayed his despair.
Solomon’s blows were slow and thus easy to evade, but the captain was aware that if one struck home, his armour would not offer much protection. He had to discover his opponent’s weak point. Continuing to aim two- handed blows at the automaton’s iron-clad armour would only make his arms stiff, and the effort would exhaust him, slowing him and making him careless: it would leave him, in short, at the automaton’s mercy. Shackleton dodged another blow, and ended up behind his enemy’s back. Before Solomon had time to turn around, he thrust his sword as hard as he could into the steam engine that gave the automaton life.
There was a great clatter as cogs and rods flew out of the opening in all directions, but also an unexpected burst of steam, which hit Shackleton full in the face, blinding him. Solomon wheeled round with astonishing agility and landed a blow on his dazed enemy. The sword struck the captain’s side with such force that it shattered his armour and sent him spinning across the ground like a top.
Claire raised her hand to her mouth to stop herself screaming. She heard the stifled cries of the others around her. Once he had stopped spinning, Shackleton tried to get to his feet, clutching his wounded side, blood streaming over his hip and down his leg, but his strength failed him. He remained on his knees, as though prostrating himself before the king of the automatons, who approached him slowly, savouring his victory.
Solomon shook his head, showing his disappointment at the poor fight his opponent had put up – Shackleton dared not even raise his head to look at him. Then he lifted his sword with both hands, preparing to bring it down on the captain’s helmet and split his skull asunder. He could think of no better way to end the cruel war that had established the automatons’ supremacy over the human race. He brought the sword down on his victim with all his might but – to his astonishment – Captain Shackleton leaped out of the way at the very last moment. Robbed of its target, the automaton’s sword embedded itself in the stony ground with a loud clang. In vain, Solomon tried to pull it out while Shackleton rose up beside him, like a majestic cobra, oblivious to the wound in his side. Slowly, as though taking pleasure from the movement, he raised his sword and brought it down, with one swift surgical blow, on the joint between Solomon’s head and his body.
There was an almighty crunch, and the automaton’s head rolled across the ground with a series of clangs as it bounced against the rocks. It came to a halt next to the crown it had worn during its reign.
There was a sudden silence. The headless, motionless automaton stood in a grotesque posture, bowed over the sword, the blade still embedded in the rubble. As a final gesture, the brave Captain Shackleton placed his foot on his lifeless enemy’s flank and tipped him over. The deafening sound, like that of scrap metal being loaded on to a cart, put an end to the long war that had devastated the planet.
Chapter XXII
At the top of the promontory, Mazursky tried in vain to silence the applause unleashed by Captain Shackleton’s victory. Fortunately it was drowned in the cheers down in the street, a few yards below, where the men were fervently acclaiming their brave captain. Oblivious to the surrounding clamour, Claire remained crouched behind her rock. She was bemused by the overwhelming storm of emotion that caused her soul to flutter like a flag in the breeze. She had known how the duel would end, yet she had been unable to avoid jumping each time Shackleton was in danger, each time Solomon’s blade greedily sought out his flesh, or when Shackleton had attempted in vain to chop down the automaton with his sword, as one fells an oak. She knew this was not so much because she feared the human race might lose the duel, but because of what might happen to the captain himself. She longed to carry on watching events below, even to make sure that, as part of his strategy, Shackleton had exaggerated the severity of the wound inflicted on him by the automaton, but Mazursky had ordered them to line up for the return journey to their own time, and she had no choice but to obey.
The time travellers began their descent of the tiny hillock like an unruly herd of goats, discussing among themselves the exciting highlights of the battle.
‘Is that all?’ asked Ferguson, apparently the only dissatisfied passenger. ‘That poor excuse for a battle is what decided the fate of the planet?’
Mazursky did not deign to reply, taken up as he was with making sure the matrons did not trip and roll down the slope, their skirts flying up with unintended coquettishness.
Claire followed them in silence, ignoring the insufferable Ferguson’s comments, and Lucy who had taken her arm again. One thought hammered persistently in her mind: she had to separate from the group. And she had to do it now, not only because it would no longer be possible once they reached the tram but because the group was in such high spirits that they had still not managed to form an orderly column thus facilitating her escape. Furthermore, she must not stray too far from Shackleton and his men: it would be pointless to get away only to become lost in a maze of ruins. If she was going to act, the time to do it was now: the further they went, the less chance she had. But she must break away from Lucy first.
As though in answer to her prayers, Madeleine Winslow came up to them excitedly, to ask whether they had seen the elegant boots the soldiers were wearing. This was something Claire would never have taken into account, although she seemed to be the only person not to have noticed such an important aspect of the future. Lucy said she had, and immediately went on to discuss the amazing originality of the footwear. Claire shook her head in disbelief at her friend’s frivolity, and when Lucy let go of her arm, she took the opportunity to dawdle. She dropped behind the marksman, who had not yet received the order to take up the rear and was strolling along leisurely, no longer bothering to keep an eye on the shadows. Behind him came Charles Winslow and Inspector Garrett,
