Conquest of the Planet of the Apes - Jakes John (читать книги без txt) 📗
ELEVEN
In Senor Armando’s tiny traveling troupe, Caesar had been the sole ape, so he’d had no prior opportunity to learn whether the grunts, barks and other sounds uttered by gorillas, orangutans, or chimpanzees constituted a formalized series of meanings for primitive communication. Now he knew—and his mastery of communication on this primitive level developed rapidly during the week he spent in the Command Post, on duty from morning till midnight.
At twelve every night, a human steward, an ill-tempered young man with a skin problem, arrived with a leash to fetch Caesar home to a more comfortable, but nevertheless barred, sleeping area near the pantry in Governor Breck’s penthouse. Still, throughout the week, Caesar had many chances to study problems of communicating with Aldo and his simian comrades. A surreptitious visit to the sleeping bays late at night—a moment stolen when the staff supervisors were occupied elsewhere—during these and other encounters, Caesar discovered that a combination of the spoken word, various grunts, barks, and chuckling noises, plus hand and visual signals, could make his wishes—and his will—known to his fellow creatures. The apes, in fact, were much more intelligent than their masters gave them credit for being. That also played to Caesar’s evolving strategy.
Buoyed by rising confidence, he was eager to be taken off Command Post duty and put on more routine chores in Breck’s household. That would give him liberty to circulate in the city.
On the Monday following Armando’s death Caesar was allowed to sleep a bit later than usual. After the steward opened the cage to kick him awake, he was required to mop the gleaming inlays of the kitchen floor. Then the steward presented him with a hamper and one of those red shopping cards he’d noticed in the hands of other servant apes.
“Let’s see whether you’re as smart as that MacDonald says you are,” the steward sneered, scratching at his cheek-blemishes. “You miss anything on that list, or come back with one wrong item—” He gleefully pantomimed giving Caesar a beating, then pointed. “Go.”
The steward left the kitchen by another door. Caesar paused only long enough to snatch a pen from the counter and hide it in the pocket of his elegant green jacket.
His route took him into the bustling main plaza where he had first arrived with Senor Armando. He slouched as he walked, moving slowly enough so that he could scan his surroundings and search for opportunities to begin implementing his plans.
One opportunity presented itself as he passed the outdoor cafe. He saw the same group of women chattering over prelunch cocktails. He paused by the curtained railing separating the tables from the plaza proper, and pretended to study his red shopping card. Actually, he was watching the gorilla waiter hovering behind the ladies.
One woman pulled a pale green cigarette from her perspex case and placed it between her lips. Automatically, the waiter reached into his pocket. Then his glance locked with Caesar’s.
Caesar blinked and uttered two almost imperceptible grunts. Slowly the waiter removed his hand from the edge of his pocket.
The lady with the cigarette said plaintively, “Frank—!”
The waiter did not move. With a tolerant smile, the lady leaned over and tapped the pocket containing Frank’s lighter. He pulled the lighter out and threw it on the table.
All conversation stopped. The other ladies raised startled eyebrows. The woman with the green cigarette said softly, “No!”
Still peering at Frank over the edge of his shopping card, Caesar flashed a message with his eyes. And although there was the start of a ripple of fear across the gorilla’s shoulders, Frank did not cringe. He turned his back and walked into the cafe.
At the table there was consternation. “Mr. Lee!” one of the ladies cried. The Oriental proprietor popped into sight. “I’m afraid your Frank definitely needs reconditioning—” She picked up the discarded lighter and started to explain. Caesar glided away into the crowd, pleased.
Outside Mr. Jolly’s bookshop, he encountered Mrs. Riley’s attractive Lisa. She was just emerging with a new volume under her arm. Empress of Love, Caesar noted with wry amusement. He risked a slight bow to the girl chimp, then glanced meaningfully at the book and uttered a series of short, guttural sounds. The pretty chimpanzee immediately dropped the book. He flashed her a look of approval and watched until she walked on, leaving the book behind.
A sculptured clock rising from the center of one of the miniature parks told Caesar he was running a bit behind schedule. Things had gone quite satisfactorily thus far. Still, all of his experiments had been on a direct-contact basis. But before leaving the Command Post the preceding Saturday night, he had conferred with Aldo’s gorillas. He had attempted to make certain arrangements for a prescribed time of each day in the coming week. Unless he hurried, he might, miss his appointment.
Of course there was always the possibility that the apes would fail to understand, or retain, his instructions. He wanted to be at the proper spot at the designated hour to see whether long-range plans could be remembered—and carried out. Also, he still had important work to do with the shopping card. But he couldn’t resist a chance he saw while glancing back at the restaurant where the terrified chimpanzee busboy had fled from the flame of crepes in preparation. Immediately inside the window, the same busboy was laying out linen and silver at a table for two.
Again Caesar used the ruse of consulting his shopping card. He scrutinized the portion of the restaurant he could see. Tables empty. Too early as yet for a large crowd.
The busboy was watching him, curious. Pointedly, Caesar glanced at the silver-and linen-laden tray from which the chimp took the items to arrange the tables. Caesar indicated a pile of bright-bladed, lethally serrated steak knives on the tray. Then he risked pointing to the busboy’s pocket. The busboy seemed slow to comprehend. Afraid to linger, Caesar was pivoting away from the window when suddenly, the busboy cast a sly glance over his shoulder. He seized two of the steak knives by their polished wooden handles and hid them in his pocket.
Hurrying away, Caesar discerned both amusement and a hint of cruelty in the busboy’s eyes. Excellent.
He needed privacy for his next move. And he was anxiously aware of the time displayed by clocks in various retail establishments.
He darted into another miniature park. It was empty. Dropping the hamper at his feet, he watched the various park entrances within his line of sight. At the same time, he slipped the stolen pen from his jacket. The last item on his shopping card was “Soyasteaks, prime N.Y. cut—1 doz.” Below this, in a fair approximation of the steward’s hand, Caesar wrote “1 gal. kerosene.”
The orangutan with a loaded hamper stepped aside. “Next,” intoned a bored woman on duty at one of the windows in the crowded food mart. Attempting to look simple, Caesar presented the red card. The woman began to call the items into a microphone on the electronic totalizer at one side of the counter. “Account One Thousand—” Her glance and hesitation said she knew the owner of that special, easily remembered number. “Artichoke hearts, one pound. Juice concentrate, nine cans. Detergall, two cartons—”
One by one, Caesar heard the items boomed over an amplifier in the rear of the mart. He was nervous, as the first of the articles began to roll into a bin below the counter. He scooped up the film-wrapped artichokes, placed them in his hamper as the juice cans dropped off the end of the conveyor. He didn’t look at the woman as she ordered up the last item. “—and a gallon of kerosene.” With a little sniff, she added, “What’s the governor doing, fueling torches for luau?”
