Taking hold of the attendant’s arm, he began to speak to her in a combination of gutturals and words.
First he informed her that he was in danger—that he might be forced to hide for hours or days. In that interval, she and she alone would be his link to the other gorillas, orangutans, and chimpanzees throughout the city who were swelling the ranks of his army-to-be. Word must be circulated. She must tell a few, and the few would have to communicate with others.
Next he traced maps in the dirt, showing where armed groups would assemble, and where they would strike. He paid particular attention to sketching the Civic Center layout, noting the entrance to the underground Command Post. It was a great deal to convey in a short time. But the chimpanzee seemed to understand, nodding and uttering soft barks toward the end.
Abruptly, Caesar looked up. Distantly through the washroom door, he thought he heard a human voice of peculiar timbre, strident, amplified.
An announcement concerning his escape?
He jumped up, wiping his hands on his trousers. He gripped the female chimp’s arms and stared at her intently.
“I will give the signal,” he said. “I will be the one, no other. Do you understand that?”
She nodded.
“Tell them to wait for the signal. Tell them not to be afraid if it takes some time for that signal to be given. It will be given, and we will strike the humans by surprise, and we will win. Understand?”
Again she signified assent. He only hoped she was not doing so just in order to please him.
Once more the voice blared outside. He rushed to the door of the ill-smelling washroom, conscious that he’d expended almost half an hour. But the instructions were absolutely necessary. As he left, the chimpanzee was already hunched down studying the diagrams he’d drawn.
At the mouth of the passage, he drew back suddenly. A state security policeman walked by. The helmeted man did not glance around.
A moment after the policeman had gone, Caesar left the passage and cut to the right, heading toward a somewhat darker street. Along it, he hoped to find one of the access stairs to the tunnels. He’d have to take his chances with the night vehicular traffic down below. Head down, shambling, he hurried. Perhaps twenty paces separated him from the street entrance. The unseen speakers poured a lilting melody over the plaza. Evening restaurant patrons and occasional servant apes continued to crisscross the open area. Only four dozen steps now . . .
A state security policeman carrying a talk-pod emerged from the mouth of the street. The policeman’s eyes flared with recognition.
Caesar spun and started back the way he’d come, quick panic throbbing inside of him.
“All plaza units!” A voice yelled. “I think I’ve spotted him!”
Caesar broke into a run without looking back. The first officer called to the one who had passed the washroom entrance. Caesar saw this second helmeted man double back to intercept him.
He burst through the entrance to a small park and out the other side. There he skidded to a halt. Pedestrians were turning to stare.
He dashed for an avenue opening on his left, reversed his direction when a third policeman appeared there, communicating via talk-pod. Caesar ran toward an escalator leading upward. The trap was closing fast . . .
The delay had been too costly. He knew that now. If only he could outrun them! He straightened up, all semblance of ape posture gone. Loping toward the escalator, he heard one policeman bawl to the others, “No shooting! That order comes direct from the top.”
Almost to the escalator, Caesar risked a glance to the rear. He was pulling away from them! He had a chance . . .
It vanished the moment he saw the two helmeted figures riding the down escalator adjoining the one going up. The first policeman leaped the rail, attempting to grab Caesar as he turned to flee. The other raced ahead to block Caesar’s retreat. The officer whipped up his truncheon. Caesar dodged, but the truncheon caught his forehead, sent him reeling. Mercilessly, they hammered him. Blood began to stream from a cut above his left eye. He dropped to his knees. A boot slammed into the small of his back, spilled him forward on his face. Still truncheons rose and fell . . .
Somewhere, an officer spoke into his talk-pod. “Locate Chief Inspector Kolp and tell him he can call off the hunt.”
SLAM—a murderous truncheon to the back of Caesar’s head brought total dark.
Gibbering—grunting—a sensation of swaying—a glare of lights against his closed eyes—and ape-sounds . . .
Then he heard human voices, a background of amplified announcements, the noise of a van gunning away. His head throbbed. He tried to move his legs and arms, realized that he was restrained by straps. Apparently lashed down to some kind of swaying litter. Helmeted policemen carried the litter. At the head of the procession the glasses of Inspector Kolp flashed. The police group approached a familiar barrier.
Caesar now understood the gibbers and grunts that had changed to alarmed howls; the wild apes caged near the reception area of the Ape Management Center sensed danger to one of their own kind. Clearly, the police had brought him to the center during his period of unconsciousness. A moment later, he knew why.
“This is special,” Kolp informed an official. “Call upstairs. We want the main No Conditioning amphitheatre cleared for about twenty minutes.”
The harassed official couldn’t stifle a frustrated exclamation: “Cleared? Oh, for crying out loud.”
Hazily, Caesar saw Kolp turn and stare down at him, spectacle lenses reflecting like small suns. “He probably will,” Kolp said in a cheerful voice. “That’s why we want it cleared.”
Weary with defeat, Caesar shut his eyes. He almost whimpered aloud. But some last spark of hate in him refused to give Kolp that satisfaction.
THIRTEEN
Rough hands pressed Caesar down, lashing him in place with buckles and straps. He knew what he would see when he let his eyes come open. The amphitheatre Morris had shown him—the amphitheatre where the gorillas shrieked in agony.
Now he was the subject restrained on the padded table closest to the console. An operator was already busy adjusting controls. Peering down toward his toes, Caesar realized they’d swathed him in a white hospital gown. Somehow, that only intensified his feeling of helplessness and fright.
“Hold his head in case he tries to bite me,” a voice growled behind him. Hands locked on. A U-clamp slipped under his head. He felt the cold touch of the electrodes at his temples.
Dr. Chamberlain and Inspector Kolp swung around as new voices sounded high in the amphitheatre. Caesar discovered that by turning his head slightly to the left, he too could see the arrivals. Governor Breck. And MacDonald.
The latter shot him one swift, anguished glance as the men descended to the front row. Kolp and Chamberlain approached the governor, who stood looking at Caesar with obvious pleasure.
Ignoring MacDonald, Kolp said, “I’m glad you got here in time for the end, Mr. Governor.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Breck seated himself in the front row, leaned his elbows on the railing. MacDonald appeared exceedingly nervous, and with good reason, Caesar thought with a twinge of sorrow.
As if trying to cover his part in what had happened, MacDonald said to Breck, “I’m still trying to figure out why the ape made a run for it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mr. MacDonald!” Breck said. “It’s simple enough. The ape has intelligence! When he learned his friend Armando was dead—you’ll recall the ape was in the Command Post when the news came through—I imagine he realized the man had first betrayed him under torture.”