Outside Mr. Jolly’s bookshop, he encountered Mrs. Riley’s attractive Lisa. She was just emerging with a new volume under her arm. Empress of Love, Caesar noted with wry amusement. He risked a slight bow to the girl chimp, then glanced meaningfully at the book and uttered a series of short, guttural sounds. The pretty chimpanzee immediately dropped the book. He flashed her a look of approval and watched until she walked on, leaving the book behind.
A sculptured clock rising from the center of one of the miniature parks told Caesar he was running a bit behind schedule. Things had gone quite satisfactorily thus far. Still, all of his experiments had been on a direct-contact basis. But before leaving the Command Post the preceding Saturday night, he had conferred with Aldo’s gorillas. He had attempted to make certain arrangements for a prescribed time of each day in the coming week. Unless he hurried, he might, miss his appointment.
Of course there was always the possibility that the apes would fail to understand, or retain, his instructions. He wanted to be at the proper spot at the designated hour to see whether long-range plans could be remembered—and carried out. Also, he still had important work to do with the shopping card. But he couldn’t resist a chance he saw while glancing back at the restaurant where the terrified chimpanzee busboy had fled from the flame of crepes in preparation. Immediately inside the window, the same busboy was laying out linen and silver at a table for two.
Again Caesar used the ruse of consulting his shopping card. He scrutinized the portion of the restaurant he could see. Tables empty. Too early as yet for a large crowd.
The busboy was watching him, curious. Pointedly, Caesar glanced at the silver-and linen-laden tray from which the chimp took the items to arrange the tables. Caesar indicated a pile of bright-bladed, lethally serrated steak knives on the tray. Then he risked pointing to the busboy’s pocket. The busboy seemed slow to comprehend. Afraid to linger, Caesar was pivoting away from the window when suddenly, the busboy cast a sly glance over his shoulder. He seized two of the steak knives by their polished wooden handles and hid them in his pocket.
Hurrying away, Caesar discerned both amusement and a hint of cruelty in the busboy’s eyes. Excellent.
He needed privacy for his next move. And he was anxiously aware of the time displayed by clocks in various retail establishments.
He darted into another miniature park. It was empty. Dropping the hamper at his feet, he watched the various park entrances within his line of sight. At the same time, he slipped the stolen pen from his jacket. The last item on his shopping card was “Soyasteaks, prime N.Y. cut—1 doz.” Below this, in a fair approximation of the steward’s hand, Caesar wrote “1 gal. kerosene.”
The orangutan with a loaded hamper stepped aside. “Next,” intoned a bored woman on duty at one of the windows in the crowded food mart. Attempting to look simple, Caesar presented the red card. The woman began to call the items into a microphone on the electronic totalizer at one side of the counter. “Account One Thousand—” Her glance and hesitation said she knew the owner of that special, easily remembered number. “Artichoke hearts, one pound. Juice concentrate, nine cans. Detergall, two cartons—”
One by one, Caesar heard the items boomed over an amplifier in the rear of the mart. He was nervous, as the first of the articles began to roll into a bin below the counter. He scooped up the film-wrapped artichokes, placed them in his hamper as the juice cans dropped off the end of the conveyor. He didn’t look at the woman as she ordered up the last item. “—and a gallon of kerosene.” With a little sniff, she added, “What’s the governor doing, fueling torches for luau?”
Caesar continued to pack the items into his hamper. He had to squeeze the lid down to close it on all the groceries. He felt extremely self-conscious carrying the clearly labeled kerosene can out in the open. With his eyes on the pavement, he hurried through the plaza, already a few minutes late.
Angling toward the public washroom where the rendezvous had been set, Caesar suddenly spied one of Aldo’s gorillas. He carried three message pouches.
Caesar caught up with the huge ape and used a series of soft guttural sounds to communicate. The gorilla blinked in response, and moved off toward the restaurant where the busboy had purloined the steak knives.
Quickening his stride, Caesar shortly reached the passageway beneath the sign reading PUBLIC FACILITIES. He approached the third door, the one marked with the drawing of an ape. He hesitated before entering. If things failed at this point, then his vision of communication among enslaved apes in the city—communication for the purpose of organization—would ultimately prove unrealistic. Well, better know it now. He pushed through the door into the ape washroom and took three steps, to a row of cheap metal basins affixed to the inner wall. A single lighting fixture in the ceiling served the entire row.
On his right, Caesar noted a small white table and chair. A female attendant, unseen when he walked in, quickly vacated the chair. She was old, he saw; her shoulders were bent from perpetual labor. She gazed at Caesar with an expression akin to worship. Then, a simple gesture indicated that the chair and the desk belonged to him—at his pleasure.
But what excited him most were the apes emerging from their grumbling parlay in the dark. Three mature female gorillas—and even a female orangutan. Aldo had understood after all. More important, he had remembered, spread the word, and completed the necessary arrangements. The female apes carried red shopping cards. Caesar nodded briefly to indicate his pleasure.
The quartet of females watched him closely. He made his moves deliberate. He placed his hamper of groceries below one of the basins. Then he held the kerosene container in the light and looked inquiringly at the chimpanzee cleaner. She pointed toward the dark rear of the washroom, and Caesar followed her gesture, circling the other apes without so much as a glance. He must show confidence, even a little arrogance, to maintain and build the leadership status he required for his plan.
The cleaning attendant kicked aside some pieces of orange rind lying outside the last of a row of cubicles. She pushed the door inward and held it, standing aside so Caesar could enter. The toilet cubicle was almost pitch black—another splendid example of the amenities the ape masters provided for their slaves!
Caesar placed the kerosene container squarely in the cubicle’s rear corner, between toilet and partition. One container was hardly enough, but soon many others would be stockpiled there.
He marched out of the cubicle and back up the aisle, followed by the attendant. With an air of authority befitting a military officer, he seated himself at the small white table and signaled to the first of the four waiting females.
The orangutan presented her red shopping card. Caesar took his pen from his pocket. After a study of the handwriting on the card, he forged another item—an additional gallon of kerosene.
Returning the card to the orangutan, he said, “Go. Then—” He touched the writing on the card, pointed to the rear cubicle. He repeated this twice. Comprehension dawned in the organutan’s eyes. She clutched the card to her stomach, turned and hurried out of the washroom. She looked happy.
The next two cards gave Caesar the chance to order two more gallons of kerosene. The third gorilla’s card presented an even better opportunity, because the last instruction read: “Collect repaired Colt .45.” Again, imitating the handwriting carefully, he added “100 rounds ammunition for above.”
As he was about to return the card, the washroom door opened. He jumped up, alarmed—but relaxed a moment later. The new arrival was the chimpanzee busboy who had pocketed the pair of steak knives. What pleased Caesar even more was the fact that the messenger gorilla to whom he’d given instructions in the plaza had successfully carried Caesar’s message.