by Titan Books
“Would I lie to you?” asked Burke.
Remus thought for a moment. “I’ve decided,” he said finally. “It’s a good job.”
Burke smiled. “Thank you, Boss,” he said. The apes were simple enough, and the astronauts’ sophistication gave the humans an intangible advantage. Still, Burke realized with a sigh, that sophistication and its alleged advantage often came in conflict with the apes’ crazy, strongly defended beliefs.
Remus ended the moment’s respite. “Get back at it,” he ordered.
Burke started wearily back for the pile of rails, with the young ape tagging along after him. The human picked up a rail from the pile; Remus disdained to help. “Who taught you to build a fence like that?” asked Remus.
Burke paused for a few seconds. He decided to take two rails at once, to hasten the end of the job. He grunted with the effort. “Abraham Lincoln,” he said.
Remus considered this answer; the name was definitely unapelike. “I’d like to meet this Abraham Lincoln,” he said reflectively.
Burke’s face was streaked with sweat. His expression showed the strain of his load. His eyes turned heavenward. “So would I, Massa,” he said wistfully. “So would I.”
* * *
Not a great distance away was the central city of the apes. Around it, the farming communities were arranged like satellite rings of subservient humans and indentured apes. In the city, the more fortunate and independent apes went about their daily affairs. Orangutans, the rulers of the ape world, oversaw the legal and executive administrations. Chimpanzees, the intellectuals, performed as doctors, teachers, and philosophers. The gorillas, weakest according to intellectual standards, but the strongest in physical strength, lived only for the clash of battle and conflict.
The leader of the gorilla forces, General Urko, sat behind the rough wooden desk in his office. The room was big, with large windows providing light and ventilation. Nevertheless, the air was still and hot, and the gorillas chafed in their heavy uniforms under the contemptuous stare of their mighty leader.
The gorilla from the pursuit team arrived at Urko’s office to make the report his superior had instructed him to deliver. While the rural patrol gorilla related the events, Urko paced back and forth with authoritarian anger. Urko finally had enough. He barked at the bewildered gorilla, “The point is, you let them get away!”
The gorilla was shaken, bearing such evidently bad news, in Urko’s headquarters. “It became cloudy,” he said weakly. “We could not follow them at night.”
Urko slammed one great hand on his desktop. “Virdon… Burke… and that traitor, Galen,” he said, his eyes wide and his face contorted with hatred. “They can see through the clouds to the stars, I suppose?”
The gorilla was very frightened. “It’s like their eyes had arrows, sir,” he said defensively.
“Garbage!” shouted Urko. “They’re ignorant, hairless savages!”
“Yes, sir,” said the gorilla.
Urko walked to a large colored map on one wall of his office. He studied it in silence for a long time. Although sounds of the busy city came in through the open windows, no one dared disturb the leader’s concentration. “How long?” he asked.
“Four days’ hard riding, sir,” said the gorilla patrolman.
Urko indicated a spot only vaguely mapped. “That’s all farm country. Tenant farms. A few big plantations.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Some horses in that area,” said Urko thoughtfully. “They could steal horses.”
The gorilla spoke up, trying to prove that he could be of use. “It’s death for a peasant or a human to ride a horse there, sir,” he said.
Urko turned to the unlucky ape. The General was smiling in a sinister way. “Yes,” he said. “I know.” There was a brief pause. “Do you know the way back?”
“Yes,” said the patrolman, “but it will be slow. The weather is covering the stars again. Many nights in a row.”
Urko would not be denied. “Then the gods themselves will take time to guide us,” he said in a thunderous voice. “These humans are dangerous, don’t you understand that? They think that they’re as good as we are. They stir up trouble.”
* * *
Outside the barn on Polar’s farm, Anto and his father, both outfitted with pitchforks, stood near a hay-filled wagon. The wagon itself was a crude vehicle, not very large, with solid round wooden wheels. Anto and Polar watched as Virdon put the finishing touches on a mysterious machine that he had built that day. His final operation was to rig a sling around the entire load of hay. Anto couldn’t stand any more of the human’s foolishness; he started for the wagon with his pitchfork, ready to begin tossing the hay up into the loft. Virdon was delaying the chore: the sooner they started, the sooner they’d finish. Polar restrained his scornful son. Anto would not wait. “Make an ox pitch hay into the barn?” asked Anto with a sneer. “Isn’t that enough to convince you that he’s not right in the mind?”
“Wait,” said Polar, recalling how Virdon had been right about the contour plowing. “Watch.”
Meanwhile, at the wagon, Virdon tightened the rope of the sling; the sling itself had been hastily sewn together and arranged beneath the load of hay. Virdon looked up at the other rope hanging from a specially rigged roller pulley he had fastened at the peak of the barn, over the large open door to the loft.
The ox waited patiently, unaware of its part in the proceedings, standing a few feet away from the load, one end of the lift rope already fastened to its yoke.
Virdon climbed down the wagon to secure the other end of the lift rope to the top of the gathered sling. He tied a quick knot, jumped down, and came to join Polar and Anto. He inspected the load from the different perspective; it seemed to be well balanced. The pulley was mounted strongly. The only variable seemed to be the ox, and Virdon had no control of the beast. “Okay,” announced the astronaut, “I think we’re ready.”
Anto still rebelled. “Work is meant to be work!” he said. “Hay is meant to be pitched! By the forkful!”
Virdon smiled at Anto’s attitude. “Drive the ox ahead,” he said.
There was a slight pause, and Polar studied the face of Virdon for any sign of deceit. He saw none, and he was satisfied. Polar walked to the ox, picking up a switch stick. Before, getting the ox in motion, he looked back dubiously at the load of hay. Virdon knew what Polar was thinking; the ape was picturing the entire load spilled out over the farmyard. Virdon was having the same ugly vision. Then it was too late; Polar tapped the ox lightly on the flank…
“Ho there,” called Polar, goading the ox. “Ho there.”
The ox moved slowly ahead, and the entire load of hay raised slowly, slowly, up from the wagon, up into the air, slowly up toward the open door of the hayloft. Virdon helped it into the opening; Polar looked at the feat as though it were magic. He hurried back to congratulate Virdon, slapping the human on the back and laughing. “Very good!” said Polar. “Hah! Very, very good! Show me how to make the trick work.”
Virdon nodded. “Easy,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
Polar turned to his son. “You saw!” he said. “Isn’t that better than forking a whole load of hay one throw at a time? Eh? Come on, Anto, isn’t it?”
Anto continued to stare at the opening to the hayloft; he was on the verge of agreeing with his father. The moving of the hay had been a big success for Virdon, even greater than the plowing instructions that he had given to Polar. But the possibility of Anto joining in the celebration was short-lived. The sound of painful mooing came from the barn, and Anto, so sensitive to every change in the cow’s condition, ran toward the building, fearful of the sound from his prize animal. Virdon and Polar followed.
Anto arrived to see the cow lying down in the stall, her head drooping as though she were ill. The cow let out another low moo, as though she were hurting. Virdon and Polar arrived at the stall not long after Anto, who was already kneeling, holding the head of the cow, the special animal: the sour
ce of his independence. Anto glared up angrily at Virdon.
“You see,” he said accusingly, “she must have already eaten some of that hay that fell in here from that… that evil device! You see? She’s dying. I know it. The humans, they’re a curse. I told you!”
Polar looked at Virdon for some explanation of why this might not be so. After all, it was common knowledge among the ape farmers that human beings were dangerous to cattle. “Anto makes a strong argument,” he said equitably.
Virdon did not answer; there was no verbal reply possible. In this situation, the conflict was futile, too easily resolving itself into a “Yes, you are,” “No, I’m not,” kind of fight. That surely wouldn’t strengthen the humans’ position and definitely would do no good at all for the suffering cow. The blond man, understanding more about the situation than either Polar or Anto, stepped by them and into the cow’s stall. He knelt and made a thorough, nearly professional examination. He gently pushed the cow’s extended belly with his closed fist. He held his hand in and then quickly pulled it away. He tried the same maneuver in other places; the cow did not try to stop him. She just lay on the hay-strewn floor and mooed softly. At last, after looking at the cow’s eyes and mouth, Virdon seemed satisfied. He stood up and turned to Polar. “How soon is she expected to calf?” he asked.
Polar rubbed his aching head. “Three weeks,” he said. “Three weeks, I think.”
Virdon gave Polar a reassuring smile. “I think your calendar might be a little off,” he said. “It’s more like two or three days. She’ll be off her feed for a while, that’s all.”
Polar squinted and looked at Virdon closely. The calving of cows, the gathering of hay, the planting and harvesting of crops, all these things were governed and predicted by the moon and the stars. They were often just a little wrong, a fact that could easily be accepted; but it was not often that something like a cow’s calving could be off by as much as almost three weeks. “Are you sure?” asked Polar, his faith in Virdon once again reduced by the human’s contradiction of established custom.
Anto was not just doubtful. The cow and her calf were the single most important thing in his young life. He would not take the chance. He would stay with the long-held traditions of the ape farmers. “It’s a lie!” he cried. “Throw them all out now, or she will die!” His voice was tinged with desperation.
Virdon sighed. He would have to win Anto over again, but this time the process would be infinitely more difficult than on the previous occasions. This time, Anto had an intensely personal interest in the crisis! Virdon tried to use reason. “The cow is not going to die, Anto,” he said. Anto continued to glare with almost insane fury. “Look, Anto, we can’t leave until Galen can walk. You know that. You can see how badly his leg is hurt. But by that time, your cow here will be a happy mother. We’ll be just as happy to be on our way again.”
Anto would not hear the logic of Virdon’s words. Logic had no value, when he felt his future and his acceptance, into adult life threatened. He spoke to his father. “No!” he said. “I am the eldest! The cow is in my charge!”
Virdon tried to reinforce his statements. “Have we shown you anything evil yet?” he asked Polar. “Tell me, Polar. If we have, well, then send us away.”
There was silence in the barn for almost a full minute. He had grown to respect the words of Virdon and Burke in the few days that they had been staying at the farm. Nevertheless, what they suggested now went against generations of experience and folklore. And there was Anto to think of. Polar could recall the time when he Polar, had waited for the birth of the bull calf that gave him his freedom. He knew what Anto was going through and Anto had had such bad luck. It was a big decision to have to make.
“The farm seems to profit from them,” he said to Anto, almost apologetically. Polar turned to Virdon. “You may stay,” he said. “But if anything happens to the cow, as Anto fears, your fate will be up to him.”
Anto was beside himself with rage at this verdict. His last chance for his future was disappearing, killed by the evil, loathsome curse that humans invariably brought to all cattle. He couldn’t understand why his father did not see. “By then it will be too late,” he said, nearly on the point of crying. “What good will that do?”
“Enough!” said Polar sternly, and walked away, having given his final world on the matter. Anto, in complete frustration, gave Virdon a threatening look. Virdon only looked back mildly. Anto stomped off in another direction, leaving the human alone in the barn with the quietly mooing cow.
* * *
Several hours later, night had fallen, and the family of Polar the farmer were gathered in the living room, around the glowing fireplace in the rough-hewn but comfortable room, Burke sat near the hearth, sketching something on a rough board. As the lines filled in more and more of his picture, it began to look like a design for a windmill, a mechanical device that had not been seen in the world for over twenty centuries. Zantes was helping her daughter, Jillia, make a garment of cloth, sitting in a chair near the fire. Across from her, Polar was mending a harness rope, weaving the loose ends together. Remus sat near his mother’s side, shelling corn from small ears, dumping the kernels into a clay pot. Virdon walked from the cot on the far side of the room, where Galen was lying; the blond human sat near Remus, watching.
“Where is Anto?” asked Zantes suddenly.
Polar thought for a moment. “I think he has some things to work out in his mind,” he said.
Virdon interrupted the younger son’s work. “Remus,” he said, somewhat puzzled, “I thought you said you were shelling corn for seed?”
Remus looked up, surprised. “I am,” he said. “Of course, Burke should be doing it.”
Burke looked up from his sketching with an expression of mock horror. “Hey,” he said, “have a heart. Even convicts get time off for good behavior, eh?”
Polar made another pronouncement; he did that quite a bit since the arrival of the humans. This time he did not even bother to look up from his work. “Remus will shell the corn,” he said. “The youngest son prepares the seed.”
Virdon reached into the corn bag, probed around for a moment, and brought out an ear twice the size of the ear Remus was holding. “Here,” he said, “you should always use seed from the best ears, not the smallest.”
Remus laughed. He glanced around the room to see if anyone else had heard this absurdity. It made him laugh again. He was glad that the humans weren’t always right. It proved that they were, after all, only human.
Polar had stopped his work and looked at Virdon with a kind of patient amusement. Perhaps the human had gotten so confident or swell-headed about his successes that he believed that he could criticize every aspect of their farm life. Well, thought Polar, perhaps it was time to show Virdon that the apes knew a thing or two about farming themselves. Zantes did not look up from her sewing, but she had a large smile on her face. Jillia paid little attention. Remus laughed again. “Did you hear that?” he asked, to no one in particular.
Everyone went back to his chore. Remus looked up at Virdon. “The best ears are for feed and flour,” he said. “That’s what we eat, Virdon. That’s why we grow the corn in the first place. The little ears are for seed.”
Virdon nodded, understanding the apes’ objection to his comment. “Oh,” he said, “I see. Then it’s the, uh, the bad spirits who have been making the stalks in the field smaller and smaller every year?”
Remus exchanged a look with his father. “How did you know about that?” he asked Virdon. The human had hit the truth, and Remus was confused. Everyone knew that fields of corn were often susceptible to the spirits, but how had Virdon known that had been the case in Polar’s field? Virdon detected that his wild supposition was precisely what the apes believed.
Galen filled the silence, trying to avoid any unpleasant suspicions, thoughts that had been put to rest during the previous days. “Virdon used to be a farmer when he was young. You remember. He’s said that before himself.” Re
mus snorted. Even another ape like Galen could not help to defend Virdon in this case. Besides, Galen was a little suspect himself, just from his association with two human beings. “He couldn’t have been much of a farmer,” said the younger son. “Not wasting his big corn on seed.”
Virdon laughed and waved at Galen to be quiet for a minute. He would have to convince Remus and Polar through logic and example. “Do you expect to be big and strong like your father some day?” he asked Remus.
The young ape smiled broadly. It was evident that he loved and admired his father. “Of course,” he said enthusiastically.
“Ah,” said Virdon, drawing a parallel between the family and the com, “that’s because Polar came from good seed. If your father were small and puny, you probably wouldn’t grow big enough to wrestle a calf— let alone an ox. Right?” Remus nodded dubiously, seeing what Virdon was hinting at. The blond man handed the ape the large ear of corn. “Each year,” he said, “if you use the biggest, best ears for seed, the crop will get bigger and better. You’ll see.”
Virdon watched Remus, as the young ape studied the ear of corn. Meanwhile, the man’s thoughts traveled back to nights very much like this, when he sat around his own living room, with his own son. If he closed his eyes, Virdon might almost pretend that he was back home, listening to the sounds of his contented family. It was a strong, melancholy feeling, something that he couldn’t share with his friend Burke who had not left any family ties behind. Tears began to well up in Virdon’s eyes, and he stood up to go by the fire. Zantes noticed his discomfort.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
Virdon brushed a single tear away, in an offhand manner so that no one might suspect. But Remus did notice, and he watched Virdon silently, bewildered.