And under the heading, “Uncorrected Evidence,” he had written:
Subject likes bananas. Significant???
Quimble was so proud of the result of the Tests that he invited a group of his colleagues to study J. G. The Colleagues, who were called Runcible, Rangle, Bypod and Partridge, inspected J. G.
And vice versa.
As none of the colleagues had any interest in Quimble’s Theory, they paid no attention to his conclusions and so agreed with him completely. With the exception of Partridge. It happened that Partridge was writing a Paper of his own entitled, The Malformed Larynx—the Principal Reason that Man is Superior to the Apes.
He engaged Quimble in argument.
“You can see for yourself,” he said to Quimble, “due to his malformed larynx he is unable to speak. That is what makes him inferior. His thumb is irrelevant...”
“The superior thumb of man has enabled him to develop the culture that led to the necessity for inventing language,” said Quimble.
“Thumb-schmumb,” said Partridge. “There’s nothing wrong with his thumb. He certainly exhibits more manual dexterity than you.”
“I have proven in my Paper that—”
“Can you peel bananas with your feet?”
“Thumbs are not on the feet.”
“His are,” said Partridge triumphantly. “He is four times as capable as you.”
“Bah!” said Quimble and left to spread rumors that Partridge was having incorrect relations with his forty-six-year-old secretary. Partridge also left to spread a report that Quimble had been seen at a Meeting attended by a Communist in 1949. This was the accepted method of debate used by Professors.
Runcible, Rangle and Bypod finished the rest of the cheap canapés Quimble had provided, inspected J. G. once again, agreed with each other that Quimble and Partridge were intellectual dilettantes and went home to work on their Theories.
The episode left J. G. feeling depressed, which is even harder for a Gorilla to feel than Unhappy. He knew his new friend, Quimble, was angry, but he didn’t know why. He felt it had something to do with How Things Were and wished he were not so subhuman and Retrogressive. He wished he knew what Retrogressive meant. He made a note to spend more time improving his vocabulary. He noticed that he was starting to shed.
Quimble and Partridge continued their debate at the Faculty Club and Quimble got more and more infuriated. An attack upon his Theory was tantamount to an attack upon his person; and, although his arguments got louder and louder, Partridge always came back to the same ridiculous point, “Can you peel bananas with your feet?”
“Irrelevant,” Quimble would shout.
“Communication is the unique factor,” Partridge would state with maddening calm. “If manual manipulation of external phenomena were the major factor, you and I would be skulking misfits in a world run by Lemurs, Chimpanzees and Opossums.”
Quimble would turn red in the face and say, “Bah!” or sometimes, “Pfagh!” and stalk out.
“Quimble is a good chap,” Partridge would say to the other Professors, “except for that idiotic monomania he has about thumbs. But, of course, what can we expect from a man with his political background?”
Quimble began to brood. He bought several stalks of bananas and spent hours trying to remove their skins with his toes in order to counteract Partridge’s arguments.
He was unsuccessful.
His fondness for J. G. began to diminish in direct proportion to his inability to answer Partridge’s argument. Every time Quimble saw J. G. reach for a banana, it seemed like a personal affront. J. G. became a living refutation of his Theory and an ally of that crackpot, Partridge. “I suspected you from the start,” he said to J. G. one day.
J. G. shuffled about and began to operate the drill press and the typewriter rapidly, hoping in some way to please his friend.
“I see it all now,” hissed Quimble. “You were planted here to spy on me. You’ve been working foot in glove with that Ignoramus.”
J. G. dealt a stacked hand of Pittsburgh Rummy, put four round pegs in square holes, field stripped the automatic rifle, and gave a moronic interpretation of a Rorschach Ink Blot.
Quimble did not notice. “Of course,” he said, “goodness me, I should have seen it. What a fool I’ve been. Partridge, that idiot, is too much of an idiot to have planned this idiotic campaign against me. It was you,” he leveled a shaking forefinger at J. G., “you—who engineered the entire thing. You have been against me from the start!” Quimble snatched up an empty fruit crate and splintered it over J. G.’s shoulders. He grabbed another crate and J. G. warily raised his arm over his head to protect himself. Quimble turned pale. “Help, help, Murder!” he shrilled. His eyeglasses fell to the floor and he scampered head first into the wall. Still shouting for assistance, he felt his way along the wall to the door and left.
J. G. knocked some splinters out of his ear and sighed. He found the Kleenex box and blew his nose loudly. He felt that he was in for another banana shortage. He was right.
When it came time for supper and there was none, J. G. decided he would have to go and look for some. He picked up Quimble’s eyeglasses and put the ribbon around his neck. Perhaps, he thought, if he could find Quimble and return the eyeglasses, they could become friends again. He wondered what he had done wrong this time. He went to the door and, not noticing that it was locked, opened it, went upstairs, through another door and out onto the Campus.
* * * *
4
There was no sign of supper on the campus. The few trees were bare of leaves and their bark was withered and tasteless. J. G. ate several feet of a boxwood hedge but found it unappetizing. In spite of his coat of fashionable silver fur, he began to feel the chill of the early spring night; so, walking rapidly, he left the Campus, passing several groups of students, who took no notice of him, and headed toward a more brightly lit section of the jungle.
He had gone perhaps six blocks when he detected the faint, but unmistakable, smell of supper. He followed the smell and came to the store of Ambush, the Grocer. Through the brightly lit window he could see an abundance of fruit and vegetables in wooden boxes. He went inside and politely ate several bananas and a dozen plums.
Ambush’s daughter came from behind the counter and stared at J. G.’s massive physique. As she was the first Jungle female he had seen at such close quarters, he nodded, smiled and inspected her carefully.
Miss Ambush, because of certain private and disturbing fantasies that regularly imposed themselves upon her consciousness, thought of herself as a Nymphomaniac, not-knowing that Nymphomaniacs are only imaginary, folk-lore creatures that Small Boys are taught to believe in, like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. However, as no male had ever shown an interest in her, Miss Ambush had never had the opportunity to correct her humiliating opinion of herself. She shuffled closer to J. G. and looked up at him and said, “Gee.”
J. G. conquering an instinctive aversion to her thin, hairless arms, her sharp nose and her insignificant mouth, nodded sociably and ate two cantaloupes and a cauliflower.
She watched him with undisguised admiration. “You a Stoodent?” she said.
J. G. said well, yes, he was studying, trying to find out How Things Were.
“Huh?” she said.
J. G. repeated that he was interested in finding out How Things Were.
“Likewise, I’m sure,” she said, looking quickly over her shoulder toward a small door at the rear of the store. “I got a date tonight with a rich, handsome feller,” she said, “who has a Big Car. He wants to take me to Loew’s Uptown to see ‘Shoot ‘em in the Stomach and They Take Longer to Die.’ “ J. G. ate some bananas and nodded again.
“It’s a Western,” she added. J. G. thought how wonderfully friendly People were and he smiled at Miss Ambush and offered her a banana.
She ignored it and went on, “But I don’t think I’ll go with him—this rich handsome feller, I mean, with the Big Car —because he’s so crazy for m
e and he wants to squeeze me and hug me and kiss me ... and ... and... get fresh.” She frowned at J. G. and added crossly, “I don’t allow that. I got self-respect and I don’t have no unnatural thoughts, you hear?”
J. G. finished a cantaloupe, and said he was sure she didn’t.
“And I ain’t the type girl like Pappa says who’s always thinking about men, men all the time and reads trash magazines. I got a clean mind.” She ran her hand over J. G.’s arm and plucked at the fashionable fur. “Hey, you Stoodents sure dress funny,” she giggled. “Have you seen ‘Shoot ‘em in the Stomach and They Take Longer to Die’?”
J. G. said he didn’t think he had.
“Ya like to?” she asked quickly.
J. G said it was awfully nice of her to ask and finished the bananas and ate six inches off the bottom of the stalk.
“Pappa, Pappa,” shouted Miss Ambush untying her apron. “Pappa, Pappa, Pappa.”
A thick man came out of the back room carrying a sandwich and a newspaper. He wiped Russian Dressing off his chin and looked at J. G. with mistrust.
“Hey, what’sa hoppen?” he said.
“Pappa, this feller asked me to the movies,” Miss Ambush said, scurrying behind the counter, collecting her hat, coat, and shoes.
“Ahhh! O Ho!” said Ambush. His face twitched and froze into an expression which J. G. rightly assumed to be a smile. “Hey!” he said, “so you take out Pipola?” He bounded forward and banged J. G. in the ribs with his elbow. “Ho Ho! Hey,” he said, “you got a Big Car?”
J. G. said no, he didn’t
Ambush shrugged. “Hokay, hokay,” he said. “Who cares?” He slapped J. G. on the back with the hand that had the sandwich in it and splashed Russian Dressing in his ear. “You smott feller. Pipola is good girl, you bet. Feller who get Pipola is locky feller. She good cook. Stay home. Not like girls who all time think about nothing but feller and making monkey’s business. She got no bad thoughts, you bet.” He turned and scowled ferociously at his daughter, who rushed from behind the counter and took J. G.’s arm.
“Pappa,” she said, “cut that out.”
“Hokay,” said Ambush. “You howa good time, you bet, and—” He suddenly stopped. He had moved from behind the counter and he was staring at the bare banana stalk.
“Hey!” he said. “What’s hoppen to fruits?”
“Now, Pappa,” Miss Ambush said.
Ambush slapped both hands to his head. “And canna-loops. Gone! and plumses!” J. G. had a feeling that he had done something wrong again.
“Now, Pappa, cut that out,” Miss Ambush said desperately. “We’re going to the movies.”
Ambush took a deep breath and held it while he ground the rest of the sandwich into the counter. “Hokay,” he said exhaling. “Six dollar bananases. Wholesales. Four dollar plumses ... Hokay. Who cares?” he finished jovially.
“Let’s go,” said Miss Ambush. “C’mon.”
J. G. finished the last cantaloupe and turned toward the door but Ambush grabbed his arm.
“Hey! Sport!” he said sternly. “Jost a minutes. What’s you name?”
J. G. told him.
“Primates. Hey, thot’s Greek name, ha?”
J. G. said he didn’t think so.
“Hokay,” said Ambush after a moment. “Who cares? Hey, what you take up on Compuss? Medical? Engineer? Foots-balls?”
J. G. said he didn’t really know, as he had just been a guest of Quimble, the Professor, for a short time, and actually he was only interested in trying to find his beautiful wife, Lotus, who had been lost in—
Ambush interrupted with a horrified shout “HOO?” he said. “You got already wife?”
J. G. said oh yes, of course, and Ambush made a strangled sound and pounded his fist against his head.
“Let’s go. C’mon. Let’s go,” said Miss Ambush, leaning against the small of J. G.’s back and shoving. “Let’s go.”
“No gone nowhere!” yelled Ambush. He peeled her away from J. G. and dragged her backwards. “You crazy?” he yelled swinging a backhand blow at her head which she ducked automatically.
“Pappa,” she wailed, “you cut that out. He’s a nice feller.”
J. G. decided he had better be going before these People got angry with him, but Ambush leapt to the door and blocked it.
“Hokay, Sport,” he said ominously. “You eat oop all fruits. You owing ten bucks.”
J. G. understood that he was supposed to give something in return for the bananas and fruit he had eaten; he produced his deck of cards and offered to deal a stacked hand of Pittsburgh Rummy.
Ambush pounded his head again. “Where’s my fifteens bucks? You got expansive fur coat so pay opp.” He held out a quivering palm. “Hand over.”
J. G. regretfully indicated he had nothing to hand over. Ambush opened the door enough to get his head outside and began to yell. “Poliss! Holp! Poliss!”
“Pappa, Pappa,” bawled Miss Ambush, rushing to J. G.’s side. “You let him alone, Pappa.”
“Poliss. poliss. POLISS!”
Now J. G. was sure that he had done something wrong. He wondered what it was this time. Perhaps he was so stupid that he would never learn How Things Are. He scratched his head and noticed that he was shedding again.
Kelly, the Cop, came to the door then; and, when Ambush explained the situation, Kelly sternly told J. G. that he must pay Ambush the twenty dollars he owed him. J. G. could tell that everyone was displeased with him. He felt so lonely and ashamed he could do nothing but stand and stare at the floor.
“Let him alone, Pappa,” said Miss Ambush. “I’ll pay for the fruit.”
“Shoddop,” shouted Ambush. “Go in back room! You hear? You crazy.” He addressed Kelly, who was busy dropping apples into a paper sack he carried about for that purpose. “Ron him in,” he said.
“I don’t know if it’s strictly legal and all,” said Kelly. “It strikes me this creature isn’t no human being. It strikes me he’s more like a ape.”
Miss Ambush waved her finger defiantly at Kelly. “It takes one to know one,” she screamed.
“Ape?” jeered Ambush. “Does ape have eyeglasses? Ha?”
“Well, no,” said Kelly. “I admit you have a telling point there.”
“Ron him in,” said Ambush and turned to his daughter, who was bawling at the top of her voice. “Shoddop,” he said paternally.
And so Kelly took J. G. by the arm and escorted him toward the Station House.
On top of everything else, J. G. was still hungry.
* * * *
5
At the station house, Kelly took J. G. before the Sergeant who was seated behind a high desk. The sergeant leaned over and peered closely at J. G. “Name?” he said.
J. G. told him and he laboriously inscribed it in a ledger. “Occupation?” he said and J. G. told him he was a Gorilla. “Oh,” said the Sergeant with a note of respect in his voice. He looked at J. G. more intently and motioned to Kelly. “You recognize him?” he said.
“Not me,” Kelly said. “Maybe he’s a Outta Towner.”
“How about that?” the Sergeant said. “Where you from?”
J. G. said that he had only recently arrived and that originally he was from Mount Kallahili.
The Sergeant looked at Kelly and nodded. “Better call Mr. Onnatazio,” he said in a low voice. He wrote something else in the ledger, then scowled and said to no one in particular: “Heldovergeneralsessionscourt — tuesdayalloweda-makeonephonecall.”
A guard tapped J. G. politely on the shoulder and escorted him through another room, where a small, surly man shouted, “Hey,” held up a camera and flashed a bright light at them. Then they went into an elevator. From the elevator they went down a long corridor, up a flight of iron steps and into a small antiseptic-smelling cell. “I’ll let you know as soon as Mr. Onnatazio sends someone,” the Guard said. “It usually don’t take more’n a hour.”
The Guard was wrong. No one sent anyone for J. G. After a while h
e decided not to wait and curled up on the concrete floor and went to sleep instantly.
The next morning the newspapers carried headlines which said: daring robbery foiled by grocer and ape man CAPTURED BY HEROIC POLICEMAN and RECENT CRIME WAVE laid to ape man. There were pictures of J. G. and the Sergeant on the front page.
J. G. was awakened at ten o’clock by another Guard, who brought him a bowl of oatmeal and four slices of cold toast. “You got a visitor,” he told J. G. J. G. jumped up, thanked the Guard and attempted to smooth down his hair. Perhaps it was his old friend the Explorer, or his friend Quimble, the Professor, or maybe his unknown friend, Mr. Onnatazio.
The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 6 - [Anthology] Page 14