Conquest Of The Planet Of The Apes

by John Jakes

  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.”

  “But we don’t do that—to humans,” MacDonald shot back.

  Inspector Kolp studied his fingernails, then removed his glasses and began to polish them. At the console, Dr. Chamberlain was whispering with the operator. The operator’s hand slid out to within inches of the switch used to send current through the table pedestal to the electrodes.

  MacDonald wiped his lips. Like Breck, h
e leaned forward across the rail. Caesar could see his distraught eyes directly across the operator’s outstretched hand. The time for pretense was gone. He stared at the black man with open pleading.

  MacDonald looked away.

  “You’ve programmed in the special instruction?” Breck asked. Chamberlain nodded. “Then let’s get on with it.”

  A signal from Chamberlain. The operator threw the switch over, and simultaneously the giant ceiling speaker boomed: “Talk.”

  The thunder of the word seemed to carry pain, hideous pain that beat through Caesar’s body, making him arch and twist on the table. He bit the inside of his mouth to hold back a cry, lashed his head from side to side.

  One of the attendants seized his head, forced it back down. The operator returned the switch to its original position.

  The pain stopped.

  Caesar panted. A vile sourness rose in his throat. Dr. Chamberlain pointed to the console.

  “Up one third.”

  The operator’s hand darted out, twisted the knob. Over went the switch . . .

  “Talk.”

  This time the pain—and the convulsions—were far worse. Caesar bit the inside of his mouth till it bled, forcing himself to ride out the searing, shattering hurt that made the small of his back rise and fall in spasmodic agony. Imploringly, he sought MacDonald’s face with pain-blurred eyes.

  Was the black man clutching the rail in helpless anger? Caesar couldn’t be sure. The faces, the lights wavered, elongated, grew distorted under the impact of the pain . . .

  The operator returned the switch to off.

  Dr. Chamberlain scowled. Governor Breck hunched at the rail in a kind of wild anticipation: “More, goddam it. I want to hear him speak!”

  Chamberlain himself reached forward, turned up the power again. The switch went all the way over, clack.

  “TALK!”

  Caesar’s back arched as high as the restraints would permit, slammed down. This time, he could not keep silent. Blood trickling from the corners of his mouth, eyes huge and glazed, he uttered a long, loud animal cry that tore up from his very gut. Frantically, his head beat from side to side . . .

  “I want to hear him speak, not just yell!” Breck said.

  Perspiring, Dr. Chamberlain leaned over, spun the knob all the way up. The cry from Caesar’s thrashing head became a bestial roar as the speaker thundered:

  “TALK!”

  He was going to die. Because all his hatred of his tormentors, all his determination, was as nothing against that electronic torrent of pain.

  The operator’s fist had gone white on the switch. He stared at the screaming, bellowing animal with a kind of sick fascination. Even Breck turned a little pale beneath his tan.

  Dr. Chamberlain shoved the operator aside impatiently, seized the switch and threw it to the off position.

  Before Caesar could quite comprehend that the pain had stopped, Chamberlain slammed the lever forward again—"TALK!”—then back, then forward—“TALK!”—and again, and again, faster and faster . . .

  “TALKTALKTALKTALK—”

  His spine thrashing wildly, his reserves of strength all but gone, Caesar summoned will enough to try one last, desperate signal—a focusing of his eyes on Chamberlain’s frantic hand slamming the switch back and forth; then a pain-tormented look straight at MacDonald.

  “Have pity—!”

  The nearly maniacal Chamberlain continued slamming the switch on and off. Only Kolp’s hand on his arm checked him. Kolp was smiling. Breck was on his feet, ramming a fist into his palm, elated.

  Slowly the reverberations of Caesar’s scream died. He felt his mind sliding into limbo, his eyes closing. He thought he saw MacDonald give a sharp little nod to signify he’d understood Caesar’s glance. He thought he saw that. But in his agony, there was no way to be certain.

  And he had no strength left to look again.

  He lay with his eyes closed, little threads of blood running down from the corners of his mouth, the convulsions slowly working themselves out of his tortured body. With a last soft thump, his back came to rest on the padding.

  MacDonald had indeed caught the message in Caesar’s pain-wracked eyes. The glance at the flying switch—then the howling of those two human words—was not coincidence.

  Like Governor Jason Breck, MacDonald was on his feet now. But MacDonald gripped the amphitheatre rail to control his emotions—while Breck gave vent to his.

  “There’s our proof! My God, it’s incredible, but—we had to know.” He spun to his assistant. “You’ve no more doubts about who he is, do you, Mr. MacDonald?”

  Trying to look queasy—it wasn’t difficult—MacDonald shook his head. “Is it necessary that I sit through any more of this, Mr. Governor?”

  Inspector Kolp glanced up at him, contemptuous. “No stomach for seeing justice done, Mr. MacDonald?”

  “Justice—!” MacDonald exploded. He held his temper, breathed deeply. “If that’s what you call it, I’m not ashamed to say no.”

  Breck could hardly take his eyes from the supine Caesar. “Go on if it’s making you sick. We’ll handle the rest of it.”

  With an unsteady gait, MacDonald began to climb the amphitheatre steps. The moment his face was averted, it hardened into lines of determination. He batted the door aside, staggered into the corridor, then seemed to slough off the trembling. He flashed a glance to his right, saw darkness outside the oval window at the corridor’s end. Walking fast, he headed the other way.

  At an intersection of corridors, he waited until two handlers passed. They gave the rumpled, sweating black man an odd look before disappearing.

  MacDonald bent over a drinking fountain, pretended to drink as he tried to remember a tour of the Ape Management Center he’d taken once in company with a number of other civic officials. Chamberlain’s staff had shown off the entire facility. MacDonald recalled comments about groups of floors having their own electrical control complexes.

  But which way to go? He had no idea.

  He wiped his eyes, read the various glowing signs at the corridor intersection. Most indicated laboratories along the branching hallways. One, pointing down a hall relatively free of doorways, said Lounge and Washrooms.

  He hurried that way, aware of the press of time, and filled with a very real doubt that he could do what he wanted without a mistake.

  Luck stayed with him to the point of revealing a stairway at the very end of the corridor. He pushed through the door, ran down one flight, then another. The walls of the landings were solid concrete.

  Cursing the wasted effort, he bolted back up two flights, then one more, to a landing with a door marked Power Service, Floors 8-10.

  He reached for the handle, started as footfalls clacked below.

  Damn! Someone coming up . . .

  Swiftly, he went up to the next floor two steps at a time. There he turned around, started down noisily, encountering an armed guard at the power door landing.

  “Mr. MacDonald!” the guard said. “I didn’t realize you were in the building, sir.”

  “Little emergency project with the governor.” MacDonald wondered how steady his own voice sounded. Not very, it seemed from the inner vantage point of his mind. By way of explanation, he added, “Seems to be some trouble with the elevators—”

  “It does happen,” replied the guard with a sycophantic smile. He touched his cap. “I’ll have someone check into it.”

  “Do that,” MacDonald said over his shoulder, already on his way down to the next landing, and swearing again at the necessity for the time-consuming ruse.

  He went down two more flights. An exit door above clanged. He whirled and raced back up. By the time he reached the power room door and twisted the knob, his chest ached from exertion. He slipped inside, latching the door behind him. His eyes went wide at what he saw.

  On the tour, he’d had the purpose of rooms like this explained. But the guide hadn’t bothered to conduct the group inside. On his right, a pair of hug
e, dark, faintly humming cylinders bulked to the ceiling. Other sealed cubes of metal on his left clicked and buzzed. And ahead—that was the source of the interplay of colored lights that dappled the aisle.

  He rushed to the wall-sized pane of thick glass at the aisle’s end. The pane comprised an immense circuitry schematic of the eighth through tenth floors. Onto the glass were etched three large circles duplicating the outer perimeter of the ape management tower, A lighted numeral above each identified the floors.

  Within each circle was a maze of pulsing, crisscrossing lines of light. They brightened, darkened, changed colors even as he watched. MacDonald’s face reflected the different colors as he punched a frustrated fist against the lower part of the glass.

  The glass vibrated faintly. Licking his bruised knuckle, he realized what he’d struck. Not the glass itself but a double row of toggle switches under the center circle. Dazzled by the array of flashing light-stripes, he hadn’t seen the switches at first.

  He discovered a similar double bank beneath each of the etched circles. He squatted, face close to the toggles under the circle representing floor nine. Then he uttered a ragged sound of relief.

  Along with individual numerical identification for each toggle, groups of them had small embossed label-plates. On the bottom row, above a battery of some dozen switches, a long, narrow plate bracketed the twelve as No. Cond. Amphi.

  He ran his index finger across the plates for the individual toggles. Speak. Syst, Ovhd. Lghtng., Cons. Master, Tab. One. Tab. Two. Tab. For table? All right.

  He threw both table switches to off position. Parallel yellow green lines near the center of the circle dimmed to darkness.

  A moment later he inched the landing door open. All clear. He started down the stairs again, this time more slowly.

  His watch showed that almost seven minutes had elapsed since he had feigned illness and left the amphitheatre. That could have been six minutes, fifty-nine seconds too long. All his effort might be wasted. Still, he’d done all he could, short of seizing a policeman’s weapon and blasting everyone in sight. And that would have gotten him shot, and done nothing at all for the chimpanzee.