Conquest Of The Planet Of The Apes Page 12

  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.

  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 cleani
ng 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—”

  “Chimpanzees in Borneo,” Kolp finished. “That’s correct. However, your records show you processed one. It went past your computer experts, everyone at your end, Doctor. We spotted it.” Out of range of the pick-up lens, Hoskyns smiled at Chamberlain’s obvious discomfort. “Please get the file and tell me what happened to that chimpanzee.”

  “Yes, immediately.”

  Dr. Chamberlain left his desk hurriedly. Kolp and Hoskyns heard him snapping an order out of camera range. Then the director of Ape Management slipped back into his chair. The creases in his forehead indicated his tension. “The file will be here momentarily,” he promised.

  “This is Hoskyns, Doctor,” said the other inspector, moving briefly in range of the pick-up lens. “What the hell’s tying up your lines?”

  “Overload,” Chamberlain admitted unhappily. “In the past few days, the curve representing apes returned for reconditioning has turned upward alarmingly. In practical terms, that means we can’t handle the work. And no one can explain the reason for the abrupt upswing. But the incidents of ape rebellion have just about quadrupled. Their owners are shipping them back wholesale.”

  Kolp’s expression grew more grim. “Doctor Chamberlain, why wasn’t State Security informed about this situation?”

  “We’ve been sending through computer reports—”

  “Which we’ll be lucky to see by next Christmas! Damn it, Doctor, it’s your responsibility to inform my section directly.”

  Chamberlain licked his lips. “I considered it. But I decided against making a personal report since a certain percentage of our overload is directly attributable to Governor Breck’s order for reconditioning of his so-called Achilles list.”

  “A certain percentage,” Kolp said. “What percentage?”

  Chamberlain swallowed hard. “Forty-one, forty-two, on that order.”

  “And the rest represents reconditionings because of acts of rebellion by apes not on the list?”

  “That’s correct. We simply haven’t the facilities to cope. We’re sending all shipments elsewhere.”

  With a helpless gesture, Dr. Chamberlain looked toward the lens.

  “Governor Breck should have been made aware of the situation!” Kolp fumed.

  Chamberlain stiffened slightly. “The governor helped cause it!”

  “Would you care to have me put that into a memorandum to him?” Kolp challenged, his voice silky and threatening.

  Chamberlain began to stroke his cheek nervously. “No, no, certainly not. I—I realize the governor acted because his judgment suggested massive reconditioning of those on the Achilles list was essential. We’re carrying it forward as best we can. But half my staff is ready to resign. Most of them are working two shifts—”

  “That’s your problem, and you’d better handle it,” Kolp warned. “From now on I want a direct, daily report on the overload situation. Not through channels, but a written report, from you, via courier. Or else,” Kolp concluded on that silky note, “your lucrati
ve salary may wind up in someone else’s account, Dr. Chamberlain. Do you understand me?”

  The scientist looked white around the eyes. “Y—yes, sir.”

  Normally Kolp would have been pleased to see a man of Chamberlain’s experience and credentials break under the slightest threat from State Security. But he had no time to be pleased. His mind was racing over the implications of the situation he’d just uncovered. In a way, he was in a spot similar to Chamberlain’s. How should he present the alarming facts to Governor Breck, who reacted with rage—and punitive action—toward anyone who permitted the smooth facade of his personal domain to be ruptured?

  Quickly, Kolp’s mind evolved a possible solution. The key was to concentrate on locating the talking ape—an assignment which that black man MacDonald had so far botched. MacDonald had come up with precisely nothing. Thus State Security could take credit . . .

  A female hand offered Chamberlain a folder. He riffled through its contents, then sat back with a look of astonishment.

  “Gentlemen, according to our records, the chimpanzee in question was sold to Governor Breck himself.”

  After getting over the shock, Inspector Kolp finally permitted himself a smile. He thanked Chamberlain in a perfunctory way, broke the connection, and turned to Hoskyns.

  “Come on, we’re going to find the Governor.”

  “But you said he was locked up in a meeting somewhere—”

  “We’ll get him out. This is one success for the Agency we’re going to report in person.”

  “Good God!” said Jason Breck. “We’ve had him under our noses all the time.”

  Inspector Kolp nodded. He was speaking with the governor in a small but lavishly furnished antechamber adjoining a conference room on the twelfth floor of the building that housed the Urban Health Agency. Windows in one wall showed dusk falling on the city, lights beginning to glow in the towers.