Conquest Of The Planet Of The Apes (11 page)

It would be Breck’s decision. The situation didn’t qualify; and yet, he had a deep-seated worry that perhaps, in a peculiar way, it did . . .

Señor Armando’s ape was presumably still at large, unless it had been killed by accident in the city. That probably was too much to hope for, Breck thought in his mood of pessimism. Then there was MacDonald’s curious, unsettling report . . .

That particular problem came back into focus as one of Breck’s young, hard-eyed administrative assistants thrust out a thick binder. “I’m anxious to have you review the latest I.Q. profile on the metro ape sample given the standard tests last week.”

“Don’t hand me big books unless there’s something essential in them.”

The assistant licked his lips, recovered quickly from the rebuff: “I believe there is, sir. The profile of the sample, which is statistically reliable, indicates that the I.Q. of the ape population has risen three point four in the last two-month interval.”

“Let Mr. MacDonald read that,” Breck snapped. “He thinks I’m imagining things about our simian friends. Who, if that report is correct, are not only becoming smarter, but generally more independent. Despite conditioning.”

Breck let MacDonald have the full force of his challenging stare. As always, he was struck by the steadiness of the black man’s gaze. Damn! If he weren’t so good, Breck would demote him instantly. As it was, he simply tolerated him—with difficulty.

With a smug grin, the assistant with the book started to hand the report to MacDonald. The other waved it back.

“I assembled that data, Morgan. Your summary wasn’t thorough enough. I.Q. has shown a slight rise—but as a result, so has work output of the apes.” The black man smiled a hard smile. “Which I thought the governor might regard as good news for a change.”

Breck returned the smile bleakly, turned and walked to the top of the small, open amphitheatre just beyond the pillars.

The impatient conversation of the well-dressed crowd was instantly silenced. Heads turned. A scattering of applause greeted the governor’s arrival. Breck affixed his politician’s smile, and waved in response as he started down the steps of the center aisle.

The amphitheatre was separated from the wide auction platform and central dais by a thick spike-topped wall of concrete. Near the dais, an auctioneer wearing a lavalier microphone acknowledged the governor’s presence with a smile of greeting. Behind the auction area rose a stark, pyramidal structure of concrete where the latest batch of processed apes was held before entering the arena via a doorway flanked by handlers.

Governor Breck moved briskly down the aisle. Briskness, he felt, was good for his image, but he paused a couple of times to favor an acquaintance with a personal word. One such was an orange-coiffured lady attended by an attractive female chimp.

“Mrs. Riley,” Breck nodded. “It was a shame about Leland’s coronary. Is he still in intensive care?”

Mrs. Riley said that was correct, adding, “But I try not to dwell on it. Mr. Governor.”

“Good for you,” Breck smiled, squeezing her shoulder and hurrying on—but not before he caught an almost human glint of amusement in the eyes of the girl chimp. That damned ape was laughing at her mistress! Or was it only a trick of the slanting sun and Breck’s growing, almost maniacal concern about the simian population? He was momentarily disgusted with himself for permitting a probably unrelated series of suppositions, facts, and incidents to weave an alarming pattern. And yet—he governed this city. Should anything go wrong, no one but Jason Breck would be blamed. His career would be finished. Nothing
would
go wrong. Prevention tinged with paranoia was preferable to disaster.

At the bottom of the aisle, one of the state security policemen snapped to attention and unhooked a plush rope. The governor took a seat in the first row, immediately behind the spike-and-concrete barrier. Unconsciously, he tapped his program against his knee as his staff settled in the rows behind him.

“Start the bidding,” he called. The auctioneer nodded, rapped his gavel. The gleaming alloy door in the face of the pyramid slid aside as the auctioneer’s miked voice boomed. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re offering an exceptionally fine group today, starting with lot number one, a very strong gorilla thoroughly trained in general security duties, including night watch . . .”

For some reason, Breck swiveled around and stared up at the girl chimp sitting beside Mrs. Riley. Thinking the attention was for her, the lady simpered and waved. But Breck’s eyes were on the animal. And something in his mind roared, Now she’s mocking
me!

Instantly he faced front. He willed his hand to stop tapping the program on his knee. Guarded, secure, powerful, he was still victim of a nameless, gnawing fear.

From the bottom of the stairs within the pyramidal structure, Caesar stared up at a rectangle of blinding afternoon sky. The auctioneer’s gavel thwacked three times.

“Sold—to Mr. and Mrs. Van Thal!”

Shackles jingled in the shadows. A handler had fetched Caesar from the individual holding cage where he had found the clothing in which he was to be sold. The handler draped the irons over his own shoulder and adjusted Caesar’s high, tight-fitting collar.

Outside, the auctioneer began again. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, lot eight. Perhaps the finest offering of the afternoon.”

Uneasy in the constricting trousers and jacket, Caesar nevertheless responded to the handler’s gentle push of command. He climbed the stairs, stepped out into the daylight.

He was momentarily blinded. But his nose identified the scent of many humans close by, and his ears picked up the sudden murmur of approval that ran through the amphitheatre.

Resplendent in his rich green uniform, Caesar knew his bearing had won him the instant admiration of the people gradually coming into focus. The handler walking a pace behind, the legally required shackles over his shoulder instead of fastened between Caesar’s ankles further strengthening the favorable impression.

Caesar lifted his head, allowing himself just the smallest display of haughtiness. Then, obediently, he trotted forward in response to the handler’s touch.

He waited at the steps at the rear of the dais, vitally interested in the humans gathered to purchase ape flesh. Halfway up in the center section he spied the lady with the orange hairdo, the one he and Armando had encountered on their first day in the city. Beside her sat the attractive female chimp—what was her name, Lisa. She was watching him closely.

Hands in repose at his sides, Caesar confronted the rows of humans and the scattering of ape servants. He noticed that his arrival on the dais had caused many of the spectators to edge forward on their seats; particularly a man who sat by himself in the first row center. Further back in the same roped-off section, Caesar recognized the black man he had seen at the Civic Center.

But it was the tanned, handsome, yet cold-featured man seated alone who held Caesar’s attention. The man glanced sharply at his program, then back to the dais. To occupy such a special place, the man was obviously someone of authority. And he seemed to be regarding Caesar with more than a little interest.

“Lot eight is a male chimpanzee,” the auctioneer announced, “in early prime and perfect physical condition. Under observation, he appeared so familiar with humans, so obedient, docile, and intelligent, that the conditioning he required was minimal. In fact, according to the information provided by Ape Management, conditioning was carried out in record time. Additional conditioning can, of course, be provided on request.”

At this, the gaze of the man in the front row riveted on Caesar—who was grateful for a sudden disturbance behind him.

Chains rattled; a man swore. Caesar turned. The handler who had been mounting the dais steps had slipped, fallen to his knees and dropped the shackles. As the man rose and dusted off his trousers, Caesar took two steps to the head of the stairs, picked up the shackles and handed them back with just the hint of a bow. The handler looked astonished, then grinned. Another admiring murmur rippled around the arena.

As Caesar faced front again, he realized that he’d made another of those almost automatic but foolish revelations of extraordinary ability. The crowd was busily commenting on his little bow. Like the handler, many people smiled. But not the tanned man sitting alone. He continued to regard Caesar with unnerving concentration.

Caesar blinked several times, blubbered his lips and slipped into a more normal ape posture. He shuffled sideways on the dais, quickly but subtly losing stature. He hoped he had not dissembled too late.

“As you just saw, ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer said, “a truly superb specimen, adaptable to almost any duties. What am I bid? Shall we begin with eight hundred dollars?”

At once, a man high on Caesar’s left called out, “Eight-fifty.”

“Nine,” came the response from a woman on the opposite side.

The first bidder promptly offered nine-fifty. A third jumped in with a bid of one thousand. The auctioneer looked pleased; this required no effort at all. The bidders kept clamoring, and within seconds, the price escalated to eighteen hundred. That figure seemed to slow the pace.

Caesar searched the tiers for the source of the bid that continued to stand. To his dismay, he saw that the bidder was a sour-looking, wizened old man in a glittering chrome wheelchair.

The auctioneer lifted his gavel. “Going to the gentleman in the wheelchair. And a very wise choice, even at a premium price, if I may say so. Going once, going twice, going—” Abruptly he stopped, diverted by a flurry of activity in the roped-off area. The hard-eyed man in the front row had turned, lifted his program to shield his mouth, and was speaking to the young black, who jumped to his feet and raised his hand.

“Two thousand!”

An exclamation ran through the crowd. From across the curve of the amphitheatre, the old gentleman in the wheelchair directed a furious stare at the black man. The auctioneer gnawed his lip a moment. “Two thousand bid by Mr. MacDonald—”

The old man’s hand went up, his voice querulous. “Twenty-one hun—”

“—for his excellency, Governor Breck?” The auctioneer barely broke the phrases, refusing to be diverted by the start of the other bid. In response to the question, MacDonald nodded once, and sat down.

The auctioneer turned to look with clear meaning at the old man, who hunched down in his chair, sullen. Caesar had heard his purchaser’s name before.

Down came the gavel. “Going—going—gone! Sold to Mr. MacDonald for two thousand dollars.”

For the first time, the tanned man smiled, his gaze still resting on Caesar. The smile was in no way cordial; it was self-congratulatory. Apparently no one dared bid against the city’s governor.

The handler signaled Caesar to leave the dais. Obeying, he was careful to shuffle and maintain his cover. The handler swung into step behind him, saying: “Damn if you didn’t make it right to the top. I knew somebody rich’d buy you. But the governor himself—that’s a plum. You deserve it, though.” He gave Caesar’s head a condescending pat. That touch was hateful. The whole process was hateful. As the handler preceded him back to the pyramid, Caesar kept seeing Governor Breck’s face. Was the governor merely buying a superior slave? Or had Caesar made too dangerous a revelation by picking up the shackles and bowing? Why couldn’t he learn to hold back?

Plunging down the steps into the cool shadows of the building, he was again at war with himself, angry, yet frightened—because the unsettling image of Governor Breck’s suspicious stare refused to leave his mind.

Caesar was kept in the holding cage at the ape mart until the following morning. Then he was loaded into the rear of a van whose gleaming side panels bore the great seal of the city, complete with upraised torch and Latin motto. He was the sole occupant of the locked cargo compartment—another sign of the prestige and power of the man who had bought him.

The van sped toward the city’s perimeter along busy highways. The highways fed into a vast, multilevel vehicle park at the city limits. Handlers were waiting with a light wire cage into which Caesar dutifully marched and, ten minutes later, he was on duty in Governor Jason Breck’s living quarters, atop the same building at Civic Center that housed his operations suite on a lower floor.

Jason Breck had risen late, with a headache and a sour stomach from last evening’s dinner party. Clad in an expensive dressing gown of rare natural wool dyed deep blue, he was busy at the small period desk in his penthouse sitting room.

As the last assistant but one departed through the foyer, Breck belched softly and glanced at MacDonald.

“I think I need a drink. And I know I don’t need a luncheon with a lot of windbag oratory. Where am I scheduled this noon?”

“The honors presentation by the Aesthetics Board.”

“Cancel me out and get me a drink.”

Breck rubbed his forehead and turned his chair as MacDonald bent to murmur into an intercom. MacDonald uttered smooth, convenient lies about the governor suffering an illness. No, nothing serious, but he sent his regrets . . .

Brooding, Breck stared through tented fingers at the high rise towers outside. The room was flooded by noon light mercifully softened by ceiling-to-floor windows of smoked, bulletproof plastiglas. A soft chime range twice. Breck swiveled around.

MacDonald walked to the foyer, admitting two handlers and the robust, green-uniformed chimpanzee Breck had ordered the black man to buy for him yesterday. The handlers presented a paper. MacDonald signed and they left. MacDonald said to the ape: “Come.”

Dutifully, the chimp shambled after him to the bar.

Hardly looks like the same animal, Breck thought, staring at the chimpanzee with a half-lidded gaze. For a moment yesterday, the chimp had appeared almost human. That had triggered suspicion in the governor’s mind, and prompted his sudden instruction for MacDonald to enter the bidding. Now the chimp was plucking nervously at the front of his uniform jacket, a rather foolish, bemused expression in his luminous eyes.

“I still need that drink,” Breck said. “See whether he can mix it.”