Conquest of the Planet of the Apes - Jakes John (читать книги без txt) 📗

Breck’s frown showed his annoyance. “It has. But I repeat—it’s not your worry. I’ll give you the full details at the proper time.”

A little more conciliatory then, he waved an admonitory finger in Caesar’s direction. “Meantime, I believe we ought to set a good example on this staff. We’ll recondition the ape ourselves. By making sure he does his assigned jobs. And properly.” Breck reached for the whiskey decanter, poured. This time, he added no soda. After a long sip, he said, “He doesn’t have a name yet. I suppose we should give him one—”

The governor carried his drink toward a tall bookcase on an inner wall of the sitting room. He sipped again, tilted his head back to scan the volumes on the upper shelves.

“My late wife inaugurated an amusing little tradition for naming the various apes I’ve bought and sold for personal use. We’ll let him choose his own.” Breck snapped his fingers. “Come!”

Caesar shambled forward. Standing just behind the man’s left shoulder, he watched as Breck set his drink on a small table, reached up to a pair of slim books bound in rare leather with gold spine-lettering. Each volume bore the title The Meaning of Names. The first was subtitled Male, the second Female.

The shelf the books occupied was just above Breck’s head. He seemed to be blinking at the titles a bit fuzzily, as if the liquor were affecting him. Finally, he pulled both books down for closer scrutiny.

“Female,” Breck muttered, discarding that volume and picking up his drink for another long swallow. The man is afraid, Caesar thought with inward delight. The man is powerful but he is afraid.

Breck set his drink aside again. “Watch,” he said.

He opened the book of male names at random, stabbed a forefinger at a page. Caesar feigned puzzled interest as the governor snapped the book shut, then repeated his demonstration.

Caesar understood perfectly well what he was supposed to do. But he maintained his look of witless concentration while the governor again selected a name at random.

Passing the book into Caesar’s hand, Breck commanded: “Do.”

Macabre amusement overcame Caesar then. Breck’s back was turned momentarily, as he replaced the other volume on the shelf. Caesar hunched his shoulders, shifted slightly so his body screened the book, and his own hands, from MacDonald. The black man was still at the bar.

Silently, Caesar flipped the early pages of the book till he found the one he wanted. As Breck turned around again, the chosen page lay open. Caesar appeared to pick a name in the manner the governor had demonstrated. Breck maneuvered so he could peer down across Caesar’s hairy forearm to the line where the ape’s finger had come to rest.

“ ‘Caesar’,” Breck read. He pushed the chimpanzee’s finger aside, grasped the book to peer at the definition. Caesar took pleasure in the sudden jump of a muscle in Breck’s temple. “ ‘A king—’ ”

Breck’s head lifted. His unblinking eyes met those of the animal, master and slave standing face to face. And, fleetingly, Caesar saw the fear again.

The governor slammed the book shut, jammed it back in place. When he picked up his drink this time, his deeply tanned hand was shaking.

Nerves—or anger? Caesar wondered. It made no difference. He had achieved the effect he wanted—and kept his cover at the same time. Something hateful spoke in the silence within him.

You will see, Mr. Governor. This is only the start of the repayment you’re owed.

An insistent buzzer broke the tension. MacDonald shifted his hand to depress a switch on the intercom.

“Yes?”

A garbled voice spoke briefly, too far away for Caesar to understand the words. MacDonald said, “Mr. Governor, they’re anxious to have you in the Council Chamber as soon as possible.

Breck’s composure seemed restored. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but he moved decisively to the bar and poured one more shot of whiskey, which he took with him as he strode toward the open door of an adjoining bedroom.

“Tell them to hold the meeting until I get there, and that’s a direct order.”

MacDonald relayed the message into the intercom, snapped it off. Breck paused in the doorway for a last glance at his ape.

“And you can take him and put him to work in the Command Post immediately.”

The governor vanished into the bedroom, slamming the door. Was it coincidence, Caesar asked himself, that Breck had not called him by his chosen name?

With the governor gone, MacDonald seemed to relax. He even smiled as he stepped from behind the bar and headed toward the foyer.

“Come,” he said, gesturing. Caesar followed him out of the penthouse and into the elevators that whisked them to ground level.

Moving from the high rise to the bustle of the Civic Center Plaza reminded Caesar that he still did not know the whereabouts of Senor Armando. What had befallen the kindly circus owner in the past two weeks?

Weaving in and out of the crowds of humans and apes crisscrossing the plaza, Caesar speculated on the significance of the words “command post.” They suggested some kind of important operations center; perhaps a key location for maintenance of order in the city. He was pleased at being taken there, because his mind was opening to more and more possibilities for action. In a relatively short time, he had seen more than enough to fill him with a consuming desire to reverse the balance of power that Breck and his kind maintained. Duty in the command post might further strengthen his capability to do just that.

Concentrating on his new sense of purpose, Caesar gradually and unthinkingly abandoned his shuffling, apelike gait. He walked very nearly upright; proudly, almost like a man. For a moment or so, he didn’t connect this fact with the stares of passing apes.

MacDonald walked rapidly to a stairway leading underground at the side of the plaza opposite the governor’s building. Two state security policemen flanked the head of the stairs. Both wore holstered side arms.

All at once a familiar face appeared, coming up the stairs. It was Aldo, carrying a message pouch. The gorilla’s forehead still showed hairless places where wounds had been stitched. Spotting Caesar, the bigger animal halted abruptly on the top step, then stepped aside. Aldo’s expression was one of puzzled respect and awe.

Caesar realized MacDonald was watching the byplay—and that he himself was standing much too straight. Hunching over, he started on down the steps. But MacDonald’s surprised look showed that he knew something very unusual had just happened.

A state security policeman grabbed Armando’s elbow to keep him from falling.

The older man was too tired even to mumble an acknowledgement. He did not know where he was. All corridors, all rooms in this building, which he hadn’t left since entering it voluntarily, had begun to blur together with a frightening sameness.

Armando knew he was being destroyed. Not with physical abuse, not with starvation, but with a much more subtle form of torture. Disorientation . . .

In those windowless chambers to which he was frequently taken without warning, he never knew whether it was day or night. His food—cups of gray, tasteless pudding; small plastic flasks of a brown nutrient drink—arrived via a pneumatic wall tube.

At intervals a matron opened the door of his cubicle and accompanied him down a short hallway to a bathroom. There he was permitted to relieve himself while the matron watched from the open doorway, disinterested. He was also allowed to sprinkle water on his hands and face.

But no showers. No baths. The sense of his own filthiness increased his anxiety, as did his fretful sleep under the lights. Such sleep came to him only when he reached periods of total exhaustion.