Conquest Of The Planet Of The Apes (17 page)

Somehow, he’d been cut out of the governor’s confidential deliberations. Perhaps the rift had been inevitable. MacDonald had protested the governor’s suspicions from the beginning—argued repeatedly for more humane treatment of the ape population, then openly protested the preparation and use of the Achilles list. No wonder Breck was dealing directly with those police bastards . . .

“Mr. MacDonald. Mr. MacDonald, please.”

The black’s head whipped up as the announcer’s voice interrupted the piped music. “If you are near a public phone, please answer.”

Grimacing, MacDonald headed toward a kiosk in the center of the terrace. Caesar followed. MacDonald pointed to the paving stones outside the kiosk. “Wait.”

Caesar held his spot as MacDonald slipped inside. For the sake of privacy, he touched the button that slid the half-cylinder of transparent plastic in place between himself and the ape. Slinging the cumbersome shackles over his shoulder, he dialed a sequence of digits, said, “This is MacDonald, responding to Governor Breck’s public call.” In a moment, he was connected.

“You’re not in the Command Post?”

“No, Mr. Governor, I’m on my way to locate Caesar, as you instructed.”

“Where the hell did you send him?”

“To Substation Forty. He’s carrying some new procedural material for the watch captains.”

“Well, Kolp, Hoskyns, and the officers are on their way.” MacDonald glanced at his wristwatch. Seven minutes gone already. “You find that damned ape, fast, and turn him over to them at the Mall of the Nations. Then get yourself to the nearest phone and report personally that it’s been done.”

“May I ask whether there’s any special reason for the urgent—”

The rest of it went unsaid. Governor Breck had broken the connection.

MacDonald twisted around in the cramped seat, staring through the transparent plastic. The chimpanzee’s eyes met his, unblinking. All at once those eyes seemed to hold a comprehension far beyond the abilities of even the most intelligent ape.

Or was it only MacDonald’s imagination? Was he too falling victim to the paranoia that somehow drove Breck to his repressive measures?

Dashing sweat from his eyes, MacDonald triggered the opening of the kiosk door, speaking his thoughts aloud. “I wish to God I knew what this was all about. I wish there were some way we could communicate, so you’d understand I don’t want to hand you over—”

The chimpanzee said, “But I do understand, Mr. MacDonald.”

Thunderstruck, MacDonald could only goggle.

The chimpanzee seemed to grow in stature, cast off his slouching posture. He stood nearly upright, looking incredibly human. His eyes darted right, left. A man and woman, arms linked, passed the kiosk. Caesar remained silent until the couple had moved out of earshot. Then he said, “You see, I am the one they’re looking for.”

Still stunned, MacDonald gasped out, “I—I thought about the possibility. Even tonight it crossed my mind. But—I never could bring myself to believe it. I thought you really were a myth.”

The chimpanzee’s face changed, grew ugly. “Now you discover I’m not. But I’ll tell you something that
is
a myth, Mr. MacDonald. The belief that human beings are kind.”

MacDonald swallowed hard, bolted from the kiosk, nervously surveyed the terrace. “We’ve got to walk—they’re coming for you—”

“Agents of the governor?” Caesar asked as he resumed his shambling posture at the black man’s side. Not sure where he was actually going, MacDonald headed for an up escalator.

“Yes,” he said, “a couple of inspectors from State Security. Somehow they must have found out—”

He clamped his lips shut as a policeman approached. The man gave the black and the chimpanzee a close stare, then recognized MacDonald and touched his helmet respectfully. MacDonald hurried Caesar toward the foot of the escalator, led him around behind it.

Beneath the slanted stair, and screened from the terrace proper by artificial shrubbery, stood a humans-only bench. MacDonald dropped onto it, shaking with tension. “Caesar, what you say about human beings isn’t true,” he gasped. “There are some—”

“A handful!” the chimpanzee snarled, jutting his head forward, his eyes baleful. “But not most of them. And they are the ones who rule. They won’t be humane until we force them to it. We can’t do that until we’re free.”

Still not quite believing that the conversation was taking place, MacDonald whipped up his watch. Barely five minutes left. “And—just how do you propose to gain your freedom with Breck repressing the apes harder and harder?”

“By the only means left to us,” Caesar answered. “Rebellion.”

It was not hard for MacDonald to comprehend the chimpanzee’s vision. Like Breck, he was a believer—now that he had heard the ape speak. And he did understand historical inevitability.

The ape’s eyes burned with a passion that was frightening. MacDonald recalled the mounting incidence of ape insubordination; Caesar’s apparent docility as a servant. Had the ape been tricking them? Pretending to obey while using the cover to forment . . .

The press of time jerked MacDonald back to reality.

“Don’t do it. If you claim intelligence, you’ve got to realize that any try at rebellion is doomed to failure.”

Caesar’s shrug was quick and indifferent. “Perhaps. This time.”

“And the next.”

“Maybe.”

MacDonald felt chilled then. “God help us, you mean to keep trying, don’t you?”

“There won’t be freedom until there is power, Mr. MacDonald. And how else can we achieve that power?” After a pause, the chimpanzee added, “You have been kind. You are one of the very few. In—what must come, I would hope to see you spared.”

“Spared—!”
MacDonald roared, grabbing Caesar’s jacket with both hands. The shackles fell from his shoulder. MacDonald jumped at the sudden sound. Caesar smiled.

MacDonald darted a glance across the screen of artificial shrubbery. If they’d been overhead . . .

But the terrace was still empty.

“I should have you killed!” he exploded.

“The way my mother and father were killed?” Caesar asked quietly.

MacDonald looked deep into the glowing eyes, remembering what had been done to Cornelius and to Zira. Despite the personal risks, and the awareness of the harm he might do, his decision, finally, was the only one he could make.

He said, “Go.”

Now it was Caesar’s turn for astonishment.
“What?”

“Go on, get out of here. Get away before I change my mind!” MacDonald stabbed a finger toward the mouth of a passageway in the nearby wall. “Go that way, to the next escalator. Try to get down into the service tunnels. Maybe you’ll be safe.
Go
—” He shoved Caesar, hard.

The chimpanzee did not hesitate. With a last, piercing glance, he spun, ran to the mouth of the passageway, and vanished.

MacDonald pulled out a linen handkerchief and wiped his face. Then he put the handkerchief away, picked up the shackles, and tried to compose himself as he left the secluded area and stepped onto the escalator that carried him upward. The act was done. Right or wrong, it was done. Now he must protect himself as best he could.

The hands of his watch showed him to be a minute late for the rendezvous already. It took him four more minutes to cross another arched bridge on the third level and reach the more crowded Mall of the Nations. There, standing in a tight group away from people queued up for a solido theatre, he spotted Kolp, Hoskyns, and two state security policemen. Kolp charged toward him.

“You’re late, MacDonald. Where’s the ape?”

Trying to sound appropriately worried, he held up the shackles. “I don’t know. I told the governor I’d dispatched him on an errand, and I’ve been searching between here and the police substation where I sent him. I can’t locate him.”

Hoskyns grabbed MacDonald’s arm. “You let him walk out of the Command Post—?”

MacDonald flung off the hand. “I do it all the time!” Kolp said, “Did you ask the substation if they’d seen him?”

“Not yet. I was sure I’d find the chimp wandering somewhere between there and Civic Center, but—”

Kolp’s normally bland face convulsed with rage. “You bungling idiot.”

He dashed toward the nearest phone kiosk. MacDonald closed his trembling hand tighter around the shackles. The piped music played merrily, while people in the solido queue stared.

About half an hour had passed since MacDonald had let him go free. But instead of taking MacDonald’s suggestion about sanctuary in the service tunnels, Caesar had found his way back toward the large plaza.

Certain realities had dictated that he do so. Most important was the fact that full-scale pursuit would very likely be launched soon, and he needed to communicate with his growing network of co-conspirators, in case he was caught or forced to hide for any length of time.

He slipped down a dark passage and into the third and last doorway. The same female cleaning attendant was on duty. She jumped up the moment she recognized him. He ran past her to the last cubicle and stepped inside. He had begun the stockpile with one container of kerosene. Now he counted fourteen. He whipped the lid from the refuse container. It was almost completely full of weapons—everything from steak knives and butcher’s carvers and the cleaver to a number of hand pistols and boxes of ammunition.

With a grunt of satisfaction, he slammed the lid down and sped up the aisle. He astonished the female attendant by hunkering down and gesturing her to his side.

From under the row of cheap basins, he scooped an accumulation of dust and sweepings. He smoothed the debris around and around on the floor. Finally, he had spread it sufficiently so that, by dampening his finger at the bowl, he could trace discernible patterns.

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.