The gorillas raised their guns to fire into the corral. The humans, terrified, backed away, cringing, some of them moaning with fear.
Caesar stiffened in outrage. Then he seemed to grow in stature. The gorillas stared at him, waiting to see what he would do. Despite his wounds, his numbness, and his shock, he managed to stand tall. He hobbled over to stand in front of the gate, between the humans and the gorillas’ guns. Something about his manner made the two gorillas guarding the gate edge away; they moved to stand with their fellows.
Caesar spoke slowly, and when he did, his voice betrayed his exhaustion. But his words were firm. “There will be no more killing, Aldo. Put down your guns. Take them back to the armory. The war is over.”
Aldo’s anger rose. How dare Caesar speak to General Aldo this way? But he controlled himself. Even his most loyal gorillas were startled by this sudden face-to-face confrontation and might hesitate to shoot Caesar. But Caesar was only a puny little chimp, hardly bigger than Cornelius. Aldo was stronger. Aldo would win. He was general of all the gorillas, and he was in charge now. His chest swelled as he declared, “No! We keep guns now. Move! Or we kill you!”
Caesar shook his head. Beside him stood Virgil. And now Lisa. And Doctor. The four faced the gorillas. A crowd of chimps and orangutans watched, shocked and horrified.
Virgil spoke for Caesar. “Ape shall never kill ape . . .” It didn’t really need to be said, but the next part did: “. . . let alone an ape child!”
Aldo’s eyes narrowed. He sneered. He raised his hand as if to give the order to fire, but behind him the faces of his gorillas showed that the meaning was beginning to sink in. Ape shall never kill ape! Holy words! Yet here they were with their guns pointed at Caesar and Virgil and Lisa!
And Cornelius! Their faces betrayed their realization! Aldo had killed Cornelius!
The rifles wavered.
The gorillas frowned in confusion, puzzling over this terrifying new thought. Apes were better than humans because apes didn’t kill. Apes never killed apes! But Aldo . . .
They looked at their leader, aghast.
One of them stepped out of the line. He pointed and gestured inarticulately. “Aldo . . . Aldo . . .” But he couldn’t, just couldn’t bring himself to utter the deadly words, the ultimate accusation. The thought kept catching in his throat. Behind him, other gorillas began muttering, began pointing and whispering and grunting nervously. “Aldo . . . Aldo . . . Aldo . . .”
Aldo whirled to stare at his troops. “Get back in line!” he shouted. “Back in line!” But his self-confidence was faltering. They ignored him, and he became flustered. He looked from side to side, as if seeking aid—or an exit.
“Aldo has killed an ape child,” Virgil declared loudly. “The branch did not crack. It was cut by Aldo’s sword!”
Around them the apes gasped. Chimpanzees wept. Orangutans barked in angry reaction. All recoiled as if struck.
Aldo snarled at the accusation and the accuser. His expression froze into a hateful glare. His lips curled back in fury. His posture became more savage, more brutal. Deep in his throat he began making a deadly sound. Aldo had become an animal, a total animal. All pretensions of intelligence had fled in his murderous urge to survive and conquer and kill.
All around him, the apes were pointing. Pointing and staring and muttering among themselves. There was no escape.
In the corral the humans were silent and wide eyed. Except for MacDonald, who murmured softly, “Welcome to the human race . . .”
The words touched Caesar’s ears, and he straightened. Yes. Welcome to the human race. Welcome to killing and hatred and war. Welcome.
Around him the muttering and whispering was dying out. All were waiting for him to act. He shook off Lisa’s attempt to hold him back and took a step toward Aldo. “You . . . murdered . . . my . . . son!”
Aldo’s eyes were wary. He was an animal at bay. He began to edge backward, away from Caesar. Caesar kept moving forward. He was unarmed but he didn’t need a weapon, not now. Weapons were for the weak in spirit.
Aldo drew his sword, the same short sword he had used to chop away Cornelius’ branch. He swung the sword around and pointed it at Caesar.
Caesar didn’t pause. He kept moving toward Aldo.
Aldo kept backing away until he could back no more. He held the sword out in front of him.
Watching, Lisa moaned in fear. Behind her, two of the humans, Jake and MacDonald, were wrenching loose a length of chain that had been entwined in the corral fence. MacDonald wrapped it in a ball. “Caesar!” He threw the chain.
Caesar saw it coming. He sidestepped it as it hurtled past, then scooped it up from the ground. He turned back to Aldo. He started swinging the chain to knock Aldo’s sword from his hand.
But at the sight of the heavy metal links, Aldo panicked. He remembered too well the chains that the humans had put on him so many years before. Now they wanted to chain him again! He broke and ran, pushing his way through his gorillas. He ran for the trees.
Caesar broke into a run, too. The apes cleared a path for him to pass, then flowed after him.
Aldo picked a tree and was up it. Seconds later, Caesar followed. Aldo was up there, terrified now, crashing his way through the heavy branches. Caesar paused and listened. Yes, there he was. He scrambled after.
Aldo stopped near the top; the branches bent under his weight. He cast around nervously for an escape. Caesar was coming! The branches creaked precariously, announcing his position.
Caesar’s face appeared suddenly below him, then his hand—the chain was wrapped around it. No! Not the chain! He shifted his position so that he could swing his sword.
Caesar peered upward. The sunlight was glaring, turning the treetop into a weird jumble of shapes and flashes. He squinted, trying to make out Aldo’s form in the glare. Trying to . . .
Wfffftt—thunk! Aldo’s sword bit into a branch only inches from Caesar’s hand.
Without thinking, Caesar swung upward with his length of chain. Aldo leaped to avoid it, but it struck him on the leg. He jumped, but the branch supporting him cracked and gave way.
The crowd below screamed.
But Aldo had managed to grasp a limb of another tree. For a moment he hung there precariously swinging back and forth. Then he swung himself up and moved rapidly across the treetop, leaping across to a third tree.
Caesar followed. Inexorably.
The two apes moved from tree to tree, Aldo fleeing, Caesar pursuing. They moved without words, just an occasional grunt as the air was forced from their lungs by the impact of grabbing or landing on a branch.
They were getting to the end of the grove now. Aldo stopped and turned, jabbing with his sword as Caesar came climbing. He struck and caught Caesar on his side! Then Aldo leaped free as Caesar swung his chain.
Caesar ignored the pain. All he could think of was Aldo—and Cornelius! He kept following. Aldo had moved into the last tree of the grove.
This tree was comparatively isolated. Caesar made his way along the branch of the nearest adjoining tree, trying to figure how he could best make his attack. The branch he was on was a thin one, it began to crack and break, making Caesar’s decision for him. As it fell away, he made a great leap and an arm-wrenching grab.
He was clutching a branch of Aldo’s tree, heaving himself into it, moving in after Aldo. There was no other tree for either of them to move to. Caesar began closing in on Aldo. Aldo clutched his sword and waited.
Caesar paused, listening for the gorilla’s heavy breathing, then moved in. Aldo began swinging his sword, slicing the air, reaching and slashing, trying to kill, to maim, or even to halt the inexorable advance of the murderous Caesar. He was backing along a thick, wide branch, always keeping Caesar at arm’s length—but only with great effort. His sword was getting too heavy. He wished he could drop it, wished he could be free of it. But no, he was a gorilla! The sword made him strong! He kept jabbing and poking and slashing.