by John Jakes
The operator jerked the switch to off. The speaker blared again, even louder. “NO!” The switch went forward.
The spasms of the gorillas were worse this time. Saliva trickled from their lips as their arms, legs, and chests heaved in reaction to the electric agony being fed through the forehead wires. This time, the operator glancing at a sweep hand on a clock face mounted on his console, kept the current flowing longer. Sickened by the sight, Caesar was still unable to keep from watching.
“Volume all the way up,” ordered the supervisor. The operator turned again. The amplified voice made the bones in Caesar’s skull throb.
“NO!”
Over went the switch. The gorillas arched in agonized convulsions. Their screams made Caesar want to howl his own protest, but he fought the reaction with all of his will. At last, the ghastly yelping ended as the switch returned to off position.
The supervisor answered the operator’s inquiring look with an upraised hand. He circled the console, approached the first gorilla, who had partially torn one arm strap with his writhing. Gazing down into the gorilla’s pain-wracked eyes, the supervisor said very softly, “No.” And although the operator’s hand did not touch his switch, the effect was precisely the same. The still recumbent gorilla began to twist and grind his teeth and convulse over the entire length of his body. The supervisor gave a satisfied nod, stepped to the next padded table. Again he said, “No.” The second gorilla howled and shook with spasms…
And Caesar was on his feet, eyes flaring with hatred.
Morris grabbed his arm, exclaimed sharply, “No!”
The realization that he’d almost betrayed himself rocked Caesar back to sense. With only a split second of delay, he began trembling. He lowered his head, hunched his shoulders in a less violent duplication of the shock-spasms the apes had demonstrated.
Firmly, Morris pushed Caesar’s shoulder until he was seated again. Caesar let his simulated cringing and shuddering gradually work itself out.
The operator and the supervisor began to unbuckle the straps on the now docile gorillas. The supervisor glanced up to the amphitheater seats.
“We’ll take him next, Morris.”
“I think we can skip it, Doctor Bowen,” Morris answered. “He’s got the message.”
To demonstrate, Morris toned to Caesar and said, “No!”
Once more Caesar simulated the cringing and shuddering of the gorillas. The supervisor observed him for a moment, finally gave a crisp nod.
From one set of doors at floor level, handlers appeared with wheeled carts, to which they transferred the semiconscious gorillas. Morris guided Caesar out to the corridor, suffused now with blood-colored sunset light filtering through a distant oval window.
As Caesar followed the handler toward the elevators, the latter said, “Be thankful you were born a chimp, my friend. I’ve been here four years and that section still makes me sick.”
Caesar wished he dared speak his enraged thoughts. Yes, it sickens you. But you still work for them.
Instead, he accepted another banana with a feigned chitter of pleasure.
* * *
When the elevator doors opened, Morris preceded Caesar into one of the oversized cars in which he had been lifted to the No Conditioning amphitheater. Like the other car, this one had thickly padded walls—and some additional telltale signs to show that, despite its calm, scientific atmosphere, the Ape Management Center was still a place that inflicted hurt on animals fresh from the wild.
One of the wall pad sections was torn, spilling out foam-wool stuffing. And on parts of the rear wall and floor, Caesar saw a dried stain. His sense of smell identified it immediately as ape urine.
A terrible scuffle had occurred in this car today. An animal had been so beaten and terrorized that he’d lost control of his bodily functions…
Anger simmering again, Caesar realized that the car had stopped sooner than he expected. A check of the indicator showed the numeral three lighted, not B-l, where his original cage was located.
Puzzled, he followed Morris off the car into a reception area. A lantern-jawed woman occupied a central communications desk, surrounded by pushbutton consoles, tabbed chart racks, a phone director unit and three mini-screen television sets which continually changed images, the interior of one crowded cell dissolving into a view of another. The three screens were labeled G-West, C-North, and O-East.
“Hello, Morris,” the woman greeted him in a bored way. She hardly gave Caesar a glance.
Morris returned her nod. “Miss Dyke, this chimp’s had conditioning. I thought I might as well check him into a training unit before I left for the night.”
The woman proffered a form, which Morris filled in with check marks, signing his name at the bottom. Only when she picked up the form did the woman register a reaction.
“Five-oh-seven I-for-Indonesia? That shipment only came in last night, for God’s sake. You mean to tell me he—?” She gestured at Caesar incredulous.
Morris nodded with just a tiny smile of pride. “In less than twenty-four hours. Dr. Chamberlain’s told me there have been a few cases of chimpanzees flying through conditioning that quickly before I was ever here. But it’s happened. Always chimpanzees. A rare one has a real instinct for survival and learning.”
“A regular Einstein monkey, huh?” Miss Dyke responded, looking askance at Caesar. “Well, as long as you signed, and accept the responsibility in case the conditioning really didn’t take—”
“It took,” Morris assured her. “I keep telling some of these ham-handed fools on the staff that gentle treatment once in awhile will bring a bright animal along a lot faster.”
Miss Dyke flipped a control beneath the C-North monitor screen, causing the images of individual cells to flip by rapidly. “Don’t let that opinion get circulated too widely or you’ll lose your job, Morris,” she said, stopping at an image of a cell occupied by three large chimpanzees. “Go back and tell the hall keeper unit twenty-one. Have him unlock it manually.” She reset the control and the surveillance scenes resumed their normal pace of dissolving on and off the screen.
Morris led Caesar along a corridor identified as C-North. Caesar became aware of quite a large population of chimpanzees—all male—in lightless cages with floor-to-ceiling bars. The cages occupied both sides of the corridor.
Some of the apes slept. Others plucked aimlessly at their own bodies. Still others indulged in minor horseplay or something a little rougher, as occasional yips and grunts testified. Far down the corridor, the keeper was handing bananas through one set of bars.
“This one’s slotted for twenty-one,” Morris called. “He’ll go into training tomorrow.”
The keeper gestured them to the second cell from the end on the left. The three chimps inside were begging and snarling for food, hands extended through the bars.
The keeper snapped, “No!” The chimps scuttled toward the darkness at the back of the cell. To Morris, the keeper explained, “They all get a little uppity before feeding time.”
He set his hamper on the floor, took out a ring of keys and opened the cage door, but not before he had shouted “No!” again, to ensure that the inmates didn’t rush forward toward the opening—and the hamper.
With gentle hands, Morris took hold of Caesar’s shoulders and propelled him inside. Caesar accepted the guidance in a docile way, instantly turning his back on the three ravenous, clamoring chimps. The cage smelled of them. Their noise, after all Caesar had seen and heard today, irritated him. He tried not to show this as he peered through the bars at Morris and the keeper. The latter was quickly relocking the door.
Morris smiled, bent, and plucked a banana from the hamper. “That’s for keeping quiet,” he said, handing the fruit through to Caesar.
At once, Caesar heard a chorus of shrill squeals behind him; then a scramble indicating sudden movement. He spun as the three shrieking chimps converged—then suddenly stopped as if struck by some tangible force.
The only il
lumination in the cell cage came from the corridor’s ceiling fixtures. The light fell obliquely across Caesar’s unusually refined features, made his eyes glitter with a strange brightness. The breathing of the three chimps grew sibilant. There was no more shrieking.
Careful not to look too human, Caesar took a step forward. One of the chimps practically rocketed to the rear wall and huddled down; forearms protecting his face. The other two backed up more slowly. Caesar knew he had established his authority. That might be vital, in the event the three ever turned on him at one time. Now, he thought quickly, it was up to him to see that the notion never entered their simian minds.
Aware that he was still under observation by Morris and the keeper, he nevertheless kept staring at the three chimps. All were huddled by the rear wall. The first one continued to hide his eyes. The other two merely lowered their gazes…
Still maintaining his apelike posture, Caesar approached them slowly, peeling the banana. He broke off one third and extended it to the nearest chimp, who snatched and gobbled it. Then, moving still closer to the cowed trio, Caesar broke the rest of the banana in two equal parts and extended those.
The first chimp reached greedily for another share. Caesar glanced at him. The chimp averted his head as the other two seized and ate their even portions. In the corridor, Morris crowed with delight. “Did you see that? I tell you, he’s the smartest animal I’ve ever been assigned!”
All at once Caesar felt apprehension. Had he displayed too much intelligence? It was necessary for his own safety, he felt. Yet perhaps he should have waited till he had no human audience. But if he had done that, the three chimps might have attacked him. And he would not have won them over—won them over so completely that now he could sit down among them with easy confidence, the backs of his hands positioned in deliberate awkwardness on the recently hosed floor of the cage.
He sat close to his own kind and they did not strike at him. Nor did they run away. Caesar felt a strange, totally new sense of power.
“Yeah, I sure did see that,” the keeper was saying. “I’m going to make a note up at the reception station, and keep a special watch on him. The last damn thing we need in here is some kind of leader.”
Leader? The word prickled Caesar’s mind with new and exciting significance. Yes, perhaps that was what he had become—inadvertently, and without any prior plan except his desire to ensure his own survival. He glanced from face to hairy face and recognized fear in the eyes of the other animals. But it was fear of a different order than that brought about by the programmed cruelties of those who destroyed the apes’ spirits in order to subjugate their bodies. The fear Caesar saw in the three pairs of chimpanzee was born not only of dread but of respect.
He sat comfortably with his ape brothers, glad he had won a small victory, and a brief respite from the horrors of this unspeakable tower of scientific abuse. If he feigned meekness and servility for a while, perhaps that suspicion would be forgotten.
Dimly, he heard the keeper speaking again. “If he’s that spirited, tomorrow we’ll probably have a hell of a mess on our hands when we lock on the leg shackles and start him through the training classes.”
Leg shackles? Caesar thought numbly. Mustn’t react. Mustn’t protest. Must accept—for a while.
“No, I don’t think so,” Morris said, his voice growing fainter. Chimpanzees in adjoining cages, spotting the keeper on the move, began to gibber. “I don’t think he’ll give you one bit of trouble—”
What touched Caesar’s mouth then might have been mimicry of a human smile. A very cruel human smile. One of the chimpanzees who had been tentatively reaching for Caesar’s arm, as if to signify friendship, drew his hand back with, a fearful snort.
The human voices, the gibbering and squealing, the nearer breathing of his trio of companions all faded away, leaving only a single word murmuring in Caesar’s drowsy mind.
Leader…
* * *
Armando knew the interrogation room was located on a lower floor of the same, gaunt, black Civic Center edifice, which housed various governmental departments, including Governor Breck’s operations suite. But that was all he knew—except for the fact that hours had passed.
He was ferociously hungry, dangerously tired. His legs had grown numb from standing. That was how they wore him down, the bespectacled Kolp, the lean Hoskyns.
The room was plainly furnished. Windowless, it was filled with harsh artificial light that blurred the concepts of night and day. Kolp and Hoskyns kept going over the same ground, repeating the same questions. Sometimes both were in the room. At other times only one, as the other left briefly, undoubtedly for food or use of a toilet.
Except for a gritty look around the eyes, neither man showed signs of tiring. They actually seemed to enjoy their work.
And why not? They sat down while questioning Armando, but insisted that he remain standing in front of the desk; a simple but effective method of torture.
So far, though, Annando had not broken. Nor shown any sign of his mounting fear.
“You look bad, Señor,” Hoskyns said. “Gray. Washed out. I’m sure a man of your age can’t keep standing in one place indefinitely. Legs hurt?”
Doggedly, Armando shook his head. In truth, his legs alternately trembled with muscle spasms, and took on a boneless, dead feeling. Hoskyns sat in an armchair in the corner, Kolp behind the desk. Now it was the latter’s turn.
“Admit you’re worn out. Cooperate with us. Everything will be much easier. We’ll give you a chair, a good meal—”
“My chimpanzee cannot speak,” Armando said. “I am the one—”
“Yeah for the hundredth time, you’ve told us!” Hoskyns exploded, half-rising from the chair.
Kolp lifted a plump hand. The other investigator sank back, disgusted.
Armando took a little cheer from that. The men were growing weary.
But it was short-lived comfort. Armando was so drained of strength his own mind didn’t seem to be functioning properly.
“Let’s try another tack,” Kolp said, rummaging in the folder Armando had seen earlier in Breck’s office. Kolp pulled out a glossy photo of a male chimpanzee with an almost human expression in its large, liquid eyes. He slip the photo across the desk.
“Tell me, have you ever seen that ape before?”
Weakly, without thinking, Armando answered, “Isn’t—isn’t that Cornelius?”
Hoskyns came bounding from his chair, grabbed Armando’s shoulder. “I thought you told us you didn’t know him!”
“Know him? Of course I didn’t—” Desperately trying to rally, repair his blunder, Armando spoke much too fast: “I must have seen similar photos twenty years ago. They must have been widely published—”
Hoskyns shook his head. “I don’t believe that was the case. How do you know his name?”
“You must have showed me the photo. Mentioned it—Yes! That tape the governor talked about—he referred to the talking ape who was murdered along with his mate—”
Hoskyns glared. “Be careful, Señor. The term isn’t murdered. The term is executed. And I’m still confused. You know the name. And you immediately connected the name with this private government photo. How? Why?”
Armando sensed a snare somewhere, tried to prepare for it, but couldn’t. Hoskyns’s face blurred in front of him, close and hostile.
Armando’s knees throbbed. His calves and thighs began to tingle with stabbing needles of pain. The room seemed to tilt ever so slightly one way, then another. Armando knew he was close to fainting. He dug his nails into his palms.
But Hoskyns was prowling back and forth between Armando and the desk, tugging something from his pocket. “I have a theory, Kolp. A pretty good theory about why he identified Cornelius so fast. He looked at that picture—and he remembered this one.”
Hoskyns whipped the handbill under Armando’s nose. The familiar, colorful type, with the dim picture of Caesar riding bareback.
“Wouldn’t you say ther
e’s a definite resemblance?” Hoskyns asked.
“No,” Armando breathed, trying to sound emphatic.
Hoskyns stepped even closer, insistent. “Like father,’ like son, wouldn’t you say?”
“No!” Armando cried as his legs began to shake uncontrollably. “No, there’s absolutely no connection, absolutely—no—”
His voice trailed off as he fell, fainting.
8
On the morning following Caesar’s admittance to the training cells in the chimpanzee wing, a day handler arrived with four sets of leg shackles. The chains were long enough to permit relatively free movement, but short enough to prevent the long striding of which a desperate, runaway ape might be capable.
Caesar gave a protesting grunt as the handler fastened on the two iron cuffs with links between. The grunts were strictly for effect. He intended to be very careful about how he distinguished himself as special. Given the speed with which he’d passed through conditioning, a certain amount of extra intelligence might be expected—and could be shown. But not too much. He would dissemble, pretend.
His strategy was based on the assumption that, since wild apes were received at this facility, and conditioned apes were employed in the city, he would be shipped out again eventually—if he survived. He could do that by showing he was clever, quick to learn. But as to exhibiting power to dominate the other apes—as he’d rashly done the preceding evening—no. That would merely arouse suspicion.
As the handler started to shackle the second chimp in the cage, the ape scuttled away, whimpering. The handler had to resort to a couple of strident exclamations of “No!” In response, Caesar cringed with appropriate realism. The handler noticed.