Resuming his seat, Caesar gestured the busboy to the table. He patted the top. From a pocket, the busboy produced his two steak knives. Then, from another pocket, two more. Caesar was surprised and delighted—but the busboy still wasn’t finished. He tugged up the front of his jacket and, from the waistband of his trousers, pulled a large butcher’s cleaver.
He flourished the cleaver with glee. The massive blade caught the light and gleamed as the busboy proudly thunked the weapon down beside the knives.
“Good,” Caesar said. “Very good.”
The sound of Caesar’s voice excited the busboy. He glanced from the cleaver to Caesar with complete understanding. Rising, Caesar scooped up the weapons. “Come.”
The busboy followed him as he paced back into the darkness again, the cleaning attendant at their heels. In the very back corner of the aisle, Caesar had spotted a refuse container. He passed the cleaver and knives to the busboy and carried the container into the cubicle hiding the kerosene. He removed the container’s lid and gestured.
The busboy squeezed by him, following the pointing hand. Carefully, the busboy laid the knives and cleaver on the bottom of the container. He stepped back, lips peeled from his teeth in a grin. Caesar wished Governor Breck might see that kind of grin.
He would. In due time.
Caesar leaned down so that his palm was deep inside the refuse container, just above the weapons. He began to lift his hand slowly, to suggest a rising level. He said to the busboy, “We must have more. Many more. Tell others.”
He restated the instructions in a series of short yips and barks, to be certain the busboy understood. He did and he nodded, his eyes alight with cruel pleasure.
Caesar pushed the container against the cubicle wall, accepted the lid which the attendant handed him, put it on top of the container, and gestured the others out.
In the aisle, he conducted still another demonstration. Pretending to be a new arrival in the washroom—he bent into a caricature of an ape that caused the female gorilla to cover her mouth and gurgle with amusement—he shambled toward the rear cubicle. Abruptly dropping his role, he seized the shoulders of the startled attendant and shifted her so that she blocked the cubicle’s entrance. As if speaking to the new arrival, he said, “No.” He shook his head. “Out of order—not in use—no.”
The cleaning attendant registered comprehension. Satisfied, Caesar walked up the aisle again and spent a long moment in thought. It would not be easy to convert conditioned slaves into fighters, but it would not be impossible. Patience, plus the submerged resentment of the apes themselves, could bring about the transformation. Caesar had convinced himself of that much. And it was accomplishment enough for one day.
With a polite little bow, he indicated that the elderly attendant might have her table again. When she sat down, her shoulders did not slump quite so much. The table had changed from a symbol of servitude to a post of importance.
Caesar picked up his hamper, surveying the dim chamber one last time. Yes, it would serve admirably as an arsenal. He could now begin to widen the scope of his operations and to establish, via instructions to other apes, similar arsenals in dozens of other washrooms throughout the city. With a last, brief nod of approval, he went out into the daylight.
Moving up the passageway, Caesar encountered a gentleman who shoved him aside in his haste to reach the door of the men’s room. He slammed against the wall, infuriated, quickly quelled the reaction. Let them shove and command a little longer. Let them enjoy their fancied supremacy, while their servants armed and prepared for a day that would bring an end to ape slavery in this city. And then, perhaps even . . . No. It was not time to dream of the enormous possibilities. Not yet. The best way to overcome your enemy, he had decided, was to understand him thoroughly, attack him by surprise—and show no mercy.
TWELVE
Inspector Kolp punched buttons on his desk top for the sixth time—and got exactly the same response. The raw buzzing signal made him slam his fleshy fist on the computer printout lying next to the rows of buttons.
Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the doorway leading to the terrace where Señor Armando had fallen to his death days ago. Once more Kolp tried calling the number. Once more a busy signal answered him. He was just programming a call to the supervisory center of the phone company when Hoskyns rushed in.
“For God’s sake, what’s going on, a red alert?”
“In a way,” Kolp said curtly. “At least I got hold of you. I’ll be damned if I can get a circuit into Ape Management.”
He shoved the printout across the desk. “That’s a routine report on arriving shipments at A.M. Of course, with the marvels of computers at our command, they’re only weeks late sending copies to our permanent file. A bright kid on one of the intelligence desks caught an intriguing error. See if you can spot it yourself.”
Hoskyns frowned, riffled the accordion-folded sheets, and shook his head. “Check shipment five-oh-seven I-for-Indonesia ex Borneo,” Kolp suggested.
The other investigator found the data, studied it, and still looked puzzled. “A batch of orangutans and a chimpanzee. So?”
“So,” Kolp replied quietly, “my hot shot downstairs remembered an interesting bit of incidental information. There are no chimpanzees in Borneo.”
“No—?” Mouth open, Hoskyns watched Kolp nod slowly.
“I’ve been trying to get a hookup with Ape Management for the last ten minutes,” Kolp complained. “All I get is the busy signal.”
“The operations suite is empty—Breck’s out of the building at another meeting. Why don’t we try the direct video link to the director’s office?”
Kolp’s nod signified his agreement. He and Hoskyns left the office and traveled down several floors, where Kolp let himself into the operations suite with his personal key. Off the main room was a smaller, locked chamber containing communications equipment for the governor’s own use. Kolp punched in the appropriate call digits, drumming his fleshy fingers on the edge of the screen till it lit. A stylish executive secretary appeared.
“Office of the Director. May I help you?”
“Get Dr. Chamberlain on his monitor right away,” Kolp ordered.
“I’m sorry, sir,” replied the secretary. “Dr. Chamberlain is tied up in an urgent staff meeting—”
Kolp hit the signal that activated the lens to transmit his own image. The secretary saw Kolp’s face appear on the monitor at her end of the connection.
“This is Chief Inspector Kolp and I want Chamberlain. Now.”
“Yes, sir. I’m very sorry I—wait, I’ll put you on hold.”
The screen displayed a changing pattern of colored lines while the audio track played soothing string music. Kolp fretted until the hold cleared and the strained face of a scholarly looking man appeared. The man wore a smock whose lapels were edged with blue piping.
“My deepest apologies for the delay, Inspector,” Chamberlain said. “But we’re having hell’s own time out here.”
“I gather,” Kolp answered, sarcastically. “On the audio board, I got nothing but a busy signal. I want your Indonesian file for last month. Specifically, I want the records of disposition of a chimpanzee from five-oh-seven I-for-Indonesia ex Borneo.”
Dr. Chamberlain’s white eyebrows shot up. “Borneo? But there are no—”