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

MacDonald pulled out a linen handkerchief and wiped his face. Then he put the handkerchief away, picked up the shackles, and tried to compose himself as he left the secluded area and stepped onto the escalator that carried him upward. The act was done. Right or wrong, it was done. Now he must protect himself as best he could.

The hands of his watch showed him to be a minute late for the rendezvous already. It took him four more minutes to cross another arched bridge on the third level and reach the more crowded Mall of the Nations. There, standing in a tight group away from people queued up for a solido theatre, he spotted Kolp, Hoskyns, and two state security policemen. Kolp charged toward him.

“You’re late, MacDonald. Where’s the ape?”

Trying to sound appropriately worried, he held up the shackles. “I don’t know. I told the governor I’d dispatched him on an errand, and I’ve been searching between here and the police substation where I sent him. I can’t locate him.”

Hoskyns grabbed MacDonald’s arm. “You let him walk out of the Command Post—?”

MacDonald flung off the hand. “I do it all the time!” Kolp said, “Did you ask the substation if they’d seen him?”

“Not yet. I was sure I’d find the chimp wandering somewhere between there and Civic Center, but—”

Kolp’s normally bland face convulsed with rage. “You bungling idiot.”

He dashed toward the nearest phone kiosk. MacDonald closed his trembling hand tighter around the shackles. The piped music played merrily, while people in the solido queue stared.

About half an hour had passed since MacDonald had let him go free. But instead of taking MacDonald’s suggestion about sanctuary in the service tunnels, Caesar had found his way back toward the large plaza.

Certain realities had dictated that he do so. Most important was the fact that full-scale pursuit would very likely be launched soon, and he needed to communicate with his growing network of co-conspirators, in case he was caught or forced to hide for any length of time.

He slipped down a dark passage and into the third and last doorway. The same female cleaning attendant was on duty. She jumped up the moment she recognized him. He ran past her to the last cubicle and stepped inside. He had begun the stockpile with one container of kerosene. Now he counted fourteen. He whipped the lid from the refuse container. It was almost completely full of weapons—everything from steak knives and butcher’s carvers and the cleaver to a number of hand pistols and boxes of ammunition.

With a grunt of satisfaction, he slammed the lid down and sped up the aisle. He astonished the female attendant by hunkering down and gesturing her to his side.

From under the row of cheap basins, he scooped an accumulation of dust and sweepings. He smoothed the debris around and around on the floor. Finally, he had spread it sufficiently so that, by dampening his finger at the bowl, he could trace discernible patterns.

Taking hold of the attendant’s arm, he began to speak to her in a combination of gutturals and words.

First he informed her that he was in danger—that he might be forced to hide for hours or days. In that interval, she and she alone would be his link to the other gorillas, orangutans, and chimpanzees throughout the city who were swelling the ranks of his army-to-be. Word must be circulated. She must tell a few, and the few would have to communicate with others.

Next he traced maps in the dirt, showing where armed groups would assemble, and where they would strike. He paid particular attention to sketching the Civic Center layout, noting the entrance to the underground Command Post. It was a great deal to convey in a short time. But the chimpanzee seemed to understand, nodding and uttering soft barks toward the end.

Abruptly, Caesar looked up. Distantly through the washroom door, he thought he heard a human voice of peculiar timbre, strident, amplified.

An announcement concerning his escape?

He jumped up, wiping his hands on his trousers. He gripped the female chimp’s arms and stared at her intently.

“I will give the signal,” he said. “I will be the one, no other. Do you understand that?”

She nodded.

“Tell them to wait for the signal. Tell them not to be afraid if it takes some time for that signal to be given. It will be given, and we will strike the humans by surprise, and we will win. Understand?”

Again she signified assent. He only hoped she was not doing so just in order to please him.

Once more the voice blared outside. He rushed to the door of the ill-smelling washroom, conscious that he’d expended almost half an hour. But the instructions were absolutely necessary. As he left, the chimpanzee was already hunched down studying the diagrams he’d drawn.

At the mouth of the passage, he drew back suddenly. A state security policeman walked by. The helmeted man did not glance around.

A moment after the policeman had gone, Caesar left the passage and cut to the right, heading toward a somewhat darker street. Along it, he hoped to find one of the access stairs to the tunnels. He’d have to take his chances with the night vehicular traffic down below. Head down, shambling, he hurried. Perhaps twenty paces separated him from the street entrance. The unseen speakers poured a lilting melody over the plaza. Evening restaurant patrons and occasional servant apes continued to crisscross the open area. Only four dozen steps now . . .

A state security policeman carrying a talk-pod emerged from the mouth of the street. The policeman’s eyes flared with recognition.

Caesar spun and started back the way he’d come, quick panic throbbing inside of him.

“All plaza units!” A voice yelled. “I think I’ve spotted him!”

Caesar broke into a run without looking back. The first officer called to the one who had passed the washroom entrance. Caesar saw this second helmeted man double back to intercept him.

He burst through the entrance to a small park and out the other side. There he skidded to a halt. Pedestrians were turning to stare.

He dashed for an avenue opening on his left, reversed his direction when a third policeman appeared there, communicating via talk-pod. Caesar ran toward an escalator leading upward. The trap was closing fast . . .

The delay had been too costly. He knew that now. If only he could outrun them! He straightened up, all semblance of ape posture gone. Loping toward the escalator, he heard one policeman bawl to the others, “No shooting! That order comes direct from the top.”

Almost to the escalator, Caesar risked a glance to the rear. He was pulling away from them! He had a chance . . .

It vanished the moment he saw the two helmeted figures riding the down escalator adjoining the one going up. The first policeman leaped the rail, attempting to grab Caesar as he turned to flee. The other raced ahead to block Caesar’s retreat. The officer whipped up his truncheon. Caesar dodged, but the truncheon caught his forehead, sent him reeling. Mercilessly, they hammered him. Blood began to stream from a cut above his left eye. He dropped to his knees. A boot slammed into the small of his back, spilled him forward on his face. Still truncheons rose and fell . . .

Somewhere, an officer spoke into his talk-pod. “Locate Chief Inspector Kolp and tell him he can call off the hunt.”

SLAM—a murderous truncheon to the back of Caesar’s head brought total dark.

Gibbering—grunting—a sensation of swaying—a glare of lights against his closed eyes—and ape-sounds . . .

Then he heard human voices, a background of amplified announcements, the noise of a van gunning away. His head throbbed. He tried to move his legs and arms, realized that he was restrained by straps. Apparently lashed down to some kind of swaying litter. Helmeted policemen carried the litter. At the head of the procession the glasses of Inspector Kolp flashed. The police group approached a familiar barrier.