Late in the afternoon, a gong rang three times. The puzzled Caesar was suddenly prodded by a nearby policeman.
“Go! Stupid ape. Don’t you know when it’s feeding time?”
Stifling his anger, Caesar followed the other animals shuffling down a corridor that led off one side of the Command Post.
In a sort of scaled-down cafeteria at the corridor’s end, the apes filed past counters where female apes handed out rations of fruit, barely cooked meat, and disposable cups of water. The apes ate standing up; there were no benches or tables provided.
On the way back to the Command Post, Caesar saw another corridor branching off the one to the meal room. A glowing sign pointed the way to Staff Messenger Quarters. He imagined sourly what those “quarters” must be—cells or cages for Aldo and his fellows.
Toward ten-thirty in the evening, Governor Breck, MacDonald, Pine, and two other staff assistants appeared at the foot of the stairs to the street. All wore expensive formal wear. Picking up another sheaf of green-tabbed printouts, Caesar watched obliquely as Breck and MacDonald spoke with a staff supervisor—asking about his behavior, no doubt.
The supervisor accompanied the two as they walked toward Caesar. The supervisor seemed to be nodding and smiling.
An electric bell, more strident than any Caesar had heard before, rang four times. Governor Breck glanced up, scowled. MacDonald darted to a nearby terminal that began to chatter and spew out paper.
Carrying his file material, Caesar started in that direction, interested to know what had put such a strained look on MacDonald’s face—and why the black man was staring at him even as he ripped off the first part of the new printout and passed it to the governor.
Breck read, then exclaimed, “I knew it! I knew that goddam circus owner was lying!”
“Apparently Inspector Kolp put out a four-bell because he thought we were still at the banquet,” MacDonald said, tearing off the next portion rolling from the machine. At the words “circus owner,” Caesar had gone rigid.
Moving along an intersecting aisle, Lisa halted and gave him a puzzled glance. He fought to compose his features as he heard MacDonald summarize the new printout. “But they insist he fell to his death accidentally.”
Breck snatched the paper, scanned it, crumpled it in rage. “While trying to escape. He knew dawn well he’d be exposed by the Authenticator.”
Sickened, Caesar absorbed the full impact of what he’d just heard. He weaved from side to side, his eyes closing. Suddenly a hand touched his arm.
He opened his eyes and saw Lisa standing there trying to steady him.
Trembling, he pulled away from her. He knew that Señor Armando must have died trying to protect him.
“—and the reason he feared exposure,” Breck was shouting, “is because that one talking ape is still alive somewhere! Pine!”
Sadness filled Caesar’s eyes as he stumbled toward the file room. He realized he was risking discovery displaying his emotions. He let the pile of filing material slip from his fingers, and forced a grunt of dismay as it scattered in the aisle.
Armando dead—trying to save him. It was too much to bear . . .
Dimly, he grew aware of Breck’s loud voice again. “Mr. Pine, arrange for full distribution of the Achilles list immediately. Copies to each police substation, including the ones on the city perimeter. Details are left to the individual commanders, but I want every ape on the list rounded up and delivered to the Center for reconditioning by 0600 tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Mr. Governor. Are there offenses to be specified?”
“Violation of Article Four, Paragraph Nine. Each of them is a potentially dangerous threat to state security.”
Caesar watched unnoticed as Pine whirled and ran across the Command Post to a message machine. In a moment, the sequence lights above the machine indicated the operator was busy transmitting the governor’s order. Nearer at hand, MacDonald was saying, “With all due respect, sir, I think I’m entitled to know what the hell is going on.”
“The Achilles list, Mr. MacDonald. Referring to our enemy’s Achilles’ heel.”
“Enemy!” MacDonald blew up. “The apes?”
Breck ignored the protest. “The list contains the name of every ape who has been reported for an overt act of disobedience within the last year. Somewhere within that group, we may find the one we’re after.”
“To charge animals with being threats to state security is nonsense!”
“The charge will do, for our purposes,” Breck returned sharply. “Besides the possibility that it includes the talking ape, the Achilles list constitutes the hard core of our obedience problem. And the time’s come to break every last one. I should have done it long ago.”
“You won’t break them,” MacDonald shot back angrily. “You’ll only aggravate the problem all the more. The action is folly—the list is folly—and I must protest both in the strongest possible terms!”
Deliberately Caesar slowed the pace of his restacking, in order to watch the end of the confrontation. Breck’s tanned cheeks looked mottled. He was furious at the public display of insubordination.
Then he regained control. A couple of sharp glances made those staring return to their work. Breck addressed MacDonald with quiet force. “Very well, Mr. MacDonald. Your protest has been duly noted. But from now on, you’re on special assignment. One assignment only—indefinitely. It’s your job to find that talking ape.”
A sudden kick in the rump almost spilled Caesar head first.
“How long does it take you to pick ’em up, for God’s sake?”
He twisted his head around, knuckling the floor for balance. He came up into a crouch, hatred simmering in his eyes.
“No,” the man barked. “No!”
Caesar cringed—and started shuffling the printout material together, helter-skelter. He hurried away from the scowling supervisor and, a moment later, was safe in the sanctuary of the empty file room. The shock of Armando’s death, coupled with Governor Breck’s sudden and repressive action against the ape population, started him trembling again, not from fear but from a peculiar new determination. It was time to act . . .
He had the capability, the beginnings of a plan, and the advantage that his human masters thus far were ignorant of the fact that he possessed either one.
Starting back toward his work station, he saw that the route to the cafeteria and cage corridors was momentarily clear. Shambling, he headed that way. He succeeded in slipping out of the Command Post proper without detection. Ahead, the concrete hall was empty, the ape feeding room shut down for the night.
Before he could begin to execute the plan he had conceived, he had to verify the extent of his own powers. He intended to do that now. Stealthily, he turned the corner beneath the sign that pointed the way to Staff Messenger Quarters.
As Caesar had suspected, the “quarters” for apes on full-time duty at the Command Post consisted of nothing more than a pair of huge bays in the sides of the extremely dim corridor. The corridor ended in a blank wall. Caesar could only surmise that there was no possible way for the apes to escape, other than back through the Command Post. Trying that, they would surely be beaten or shot down—hence the lack of bars.
He approached the recessed bays in the security of almost total darkness. The only illumination was provided by a single fixture glowing feebly in the ceiling of each bay. There was barely enough light for Caesar to discern forms within the bays.
He crouched by the right-hand wall. His sense of smell told him the inhabitants of the bays were all males. Gradually, staring across into the left bay, he discerned a row of cheap mattresses where apes lay sleeping—some soundly, some restlessly, turning and thrashing with an occasional nightmare squeal or whimper.