Текст книги "Conquest of the Planet of the Apes "

Автор книги: John Jakes

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

SIX

In the service tunnel, two glowing ovals. Moving. Watching—to the left, the direction of the mournful harbor horns; then to the right, down the tunnel’s narrowing perspective. There, Caesar hoped and prayed Armando would appear. If not this second, then the next. If not the next, the one after . . .

Counting seconds, then minutes, became a mental game to relieve the mounting worry. Finally, though, he gave it up. He leaned his head against the concrete, closed his eyes, and wrapped his hands around his legs. He was frightened. More frightened than ever before in his life. As Armando had observed, he did have a good time sense. He was well aware that two hours, and more, had gone by.

Yet he refused to leave. He kept sitting there in the dark midway between the two ceiling lights, his breath hissing in and out between his teeth while he told himself over and over, any moment now Armando will come.

As if willing the miracle to reality, he heard sounds down the tunnel to the right. He leaped joyfully to his feet, began to run toward the sounds . . .

He skidded to a stop. The sounds were all wrong. He recognized the snarl of some type of small engine.

Instantly, light speared along the tunnel to wash over him. He’d waited too long. Late-night activity below the city was beginning.

Some sort of vehicle was speeding toward him, its cowl lights increasing in size. Caesar turned and fled in the opposite direction.

Ahead, along the tunnel walls, his flickering shadow preceded him. Behind, an air horn sounded. He’d been seen!

Doubling his speed, he plunged toward the tunnel mouth ahead. The motorized vehicle whined into a higher gear. A man yelled a command to stop.

Focusing all his attention on that growing semicircle of darkness in front of him, Caesar ran as fast as he could, but the motor vehicle was closing the gap. Caesar’s shadow became sharper on the concrete walls.

There was now but a short way to run. He could smell open water, dank and sulphurous with industrial emissions. He remembered the smell from journeys the circus had made up the coastline through the California provinces. And he fixed his mind on the source of that polluting stink. Man. The enslaver of Caesar’s own kind.

Remembering who was pursuing him behind those huge looming lights, Caesar replaced his terror with hatred. The hatred pumped new strength into him. His lips peeled back from his teeth—and a moment later he burst from the tunnel mouth onto a mist-slimed concrete pier.

He nearly toppled off the edge into the vile-smelling water. Recovering his balance just in time, he glanced both ways. A short distance on his right, the pier ended. So he went left, bent over and scuttling fast through a misty patch of light cast by a fixture on a tall stanchion. Midway up the iron pole a sign read Pier 39.

Behind him, Caesar heard a cry of dismay. His face showed ugly pleasure. The pursuing vehicle did not emerge from the tunnel. He was momentarily safe in the harbor darkness.

Caesar ran swiftly, keeping close to the windowless wall of what appeared to be an immense warehouse. A glance to the rear showed him the headlights of the pursuit vehicle spilling through the night mist from the tunnel mouth, but the vehicle didn’t appear.

The intensity of the lights began to diminish. The vehicle was abandoning a pursuit that the darkness and the night would make virtually futile. But Caesar knew that, having been seen in the harbor area, he dared not remain in it for long. Also, Armando would probably not risk returning to the tunnels at their busy time—if he ever returned at all. Caesar decided to escape the area as quickly as he could. He stopped under the warehouse wall, trying to recall what Armando had said about ape shipments being unloaded at night. He didn’t care for the idea of trying to lose himself in one of those shipments, but he supposed it was a better alternative than attempting to hide in an unfamiliar city, constantly exposed to the danger of capture.

Now his vision had adjusted to the misty darkness. Further up the pier, he detected two winking spots of reddish light. Silently, he moved in that direction. He picked up sounds: men’s voices, power winches, clanking chains. Perhaps after all the bad luck of the recent hours, he was in for something better—because the looming outline that gradually revealed itself to him was the massive curved stem of a huge freighter tied up to the pier.

Running lights picked out the sleek vessel’s identification—S. S. Pacifica, Atomic General Lines, Inc.

Other pale yellow lights gleamed high up along the ship’s superstructure. But what interested Caesar most was the pair of blinking red dots on the pier itself. He crept toward them, careful to place his weight with each step so as not to make an unnecessary sound with his heavy boots!

From a vantage point of about ten yards, he saw that the flashing lights were part of the rear bumper of an open-bed van parked near the freighter’s hull. He kept watching, detecting men and activity on the ship, but there was no sign of the van driver. Puzzling. The van’s rear gate was open. The driver might well be inside the streamlined cab. There was no way to tell. But with luck, the van might depart shortly. Whatever its destination, it was better than the pier. Someone back in the tunnels might report a runaway ape, and institute an organized search.

Caesar reached down and tugged off his boots, leaving them in the dark beside the warehouse wall. The pier concrete was damp against the bottom of his feet, but now he was able to move with his natural silence. He closed the distance to the van’s open bed in seconds.

Up on the ship, he saw figures passing along the rail; they were little more than blurs against the background of the misted superstructure. So far as he could tell, none of the men was looking toward the truck.

His body limned briefly by the intermittent glow of the flashing red lights, Caesar slipped forward without a sound, squatted down in the corner between side wall and rear cab partition. But his sense of security lasted no more than a few moments.

Chains rattled. A voice bawled through the fog, “Okay—lower away!”

Caesar snapped his head up, eyes flying wide in alarm. A massive boom was swinging out from the freighter’s deck. A chain hung from the boom, and at the end of the chain, a glinting steel power-claw held a black rectangle which began to descend toward the truck bed with alarming speed.

As the chain paid out, Caesar understood the nature of the rectangle. It was the bottom of a crate, coming straight down on top of him!

Wild gibbers and grunts keened up into shrill squeals as the crate began to sway. Caged apes!

Caesar’s instincts warned him that he had already waited too long—the massive cage would just barely fit into the bed of the van. If he didn’t leave instantly, he could be crushed to death . . .

As the black rectangle filled his vision, he hurled himself desperately to one side, averting his head and flattening his hands against the cold metal of the side panel.

The cage slashed past him with only inches to spare. It struck the van bed with a whang and a thump.

Caesar opened his eyes to see wooden bars close to his face. The cries of the animals cramped into the cage’s totally inadequate space filled the night with a maniacal chorus. The claw-lift released, began to rise as the chain reversed. Outside the van a man exclaimed, “Don’t drop so fast next time! You think we can afford to respring these trucks after every delivery?”

There were footsteps on the pier. The cab door opened and shut again with a metallic sound. All these were peripheral sounds counterpointing the wild squalls and barks of the helpless apes in the cage.

Caesar’s breathing was returning to normal after the close escape. With an effort, he focused his attention on the howling cargo inside the bars. Naked orangutans were stumbling and bumping against one another, struggling up again, salivating and grimacing, still disoriented by the cage’s wild seesaw descent. The arms of the terrified apes flailed wildly so that, without intended malice, they hit one another—and began to snarl in fury. One ape who had fallen clutched and clawed at another in an effort to regain its feet. Abruptly, the confusion in the cage turned to blows and cruel biting.

Horrified by the prospect of impending bloodshed, Caesar was not aware that someone had shut the side-hinged tailgate of the van until he heard it clang and lock.

“You better roll,” a man yelled from behind the truck. “Sounds like they’re ready to rip each other apart.”

As if in answer, the van’s power plant kicked over. With a low hum, the vehicle moved forward. The sudden lurch disoriented the orangutans again, sent them toppling over one another. The biting and cuffing grew worse.

Caesar watched with mingled pity and disgust, but his mere presence was enough to stop the fighting. One of the young apes floundering on the cage floor caught sight of Caesar. Snuffling loudly, he let go of the foot of the orangutan he had been about to attack, and his savage cries changed to shorter, less strident grunts.

The van took a curve. The noises of the first ape drew the attention of a few others, then of all the tightly packed prisoners. One by one they struggled to the side of the cage nearest Caesar. Suspiciously, an immense orangutan reached out between two bars. Caesar remained absolutely still.

The orangutan plucked Caesar’s checked shirt, inadvertently opening a long rip. Still Caesar displayed no sign of displeasure, or even a reaction. Other ape hands groped to touch and examine his breeches. Obviously these were wild apes not yet subjected to that conditioning of which Caesar had heard. They behaved in a primitive way, totally unlike the servant apes he’d glimpsed in the city. That gave Caesar a feeling of mastery, a sense of confidence, as he remembered another of Armando’s cautions. He began to unbutton his checked shirt.

The apes watched with primal curiosity as the van swayed along. Caesar glimpsed buildings flashing past above the open truck bed as he bundled his shirt and breeches in one hand, threw them high and away, over the side. He listened for human outcries, heard none. He reached for the topmost of three heavy bolts securing the door on the side of the cage. One by one he released the bolts. Then he drew the door open just enough to slip through.

When the apes realized his intent, they crowded to the opposite side of the cage. Caesar had all the room he needed to slip his hand around and refasten the bolts.

His fear was all but gone now. The round eyes and hunched shoulders of the apes cringing in front of him told him that they recognized, albeit in a primitive, nonvocal way, that Caesar was different. They were the ones who were afraid.

All at once the wheels bounced over a bump, throwing the apes off balance. They squealed as they floundered. Then they goggled at the one among them still upright: Caesar, who had merely reached out to grasp a bar for support.

Despite these pathetic creatures being his brothers, Caesar couldn’t help the flash of contempt that crossed his face. The apes, cowering grotesquely on the reeking, offal-littered straw of the cage, showed that they knew a superior being had come into their midst.

Caesar’s presence calmed—or cowed—the other apes in the cage. There were no further disturbances for the remainder of the trip.

He speculated about the van’s destination. Whatever it might be, he was probably better off than he would have been roaming the hostile, unfamiliar city. He worried about Señor Armando, though. Surely his failure to return was due strictly to some unexpected entanglement with the authorities. Surely no harm had come to him . . . No, at this moment he was probably free again, waiting for the service tunnels to clear. With all the shocks and horrors of the past twenty-four hours, any other possibility was too grim for Caesar to contemplate.

His excellent time sense told him the journey lasted about half an hour. Evidently they were driving into the thinly populated green spaces surrounding the metro complex. He recalled Armando telling him that, once, such areas had sprawled with ugly row houses and huge shopping malls. But with the rise of powerful centralized government, strictly enforced law and order had been restored to the cities, and a rebuilding process had begun in the decayed central cores.

Gradually, a reverse migration took place. Mile after mile of emptied suburban slums were leveled, and returned to parklands and agriculture. City dwellers now called such exurban areas “the provinces.”

Caesar’s keen nose caught the scent of greenery and sweet earth. The sight of the crystal stars reminded him of more pleasant times in the circus—

But this brief sense of security disappeared the instant the van reached its destination.

Oval lamps whipped past overhead. The glares and flashes started the other apes gibbering and snorting again.

Then the van drove down an incline. Caesar would have tumbled against the others if he hadn’t gripped the bars tightly.

Abruptly the van braked, went into reverse, stopped again. Over the top of the side panel Caesar could see only a giant concrete pylon, half in shadow, and the faint glow of distant lights. Then he heard men’s voices, and a motor’s low purr.

The rear gate of the van, which he couldn’t see, opened with a clang. The motor revved, the cage jerked upward slightly, then began to travel horizontally.

As it cleared the back of the van, riding the prongs of a forklift, Caesar saw men in white smocks peering up at the new arrivals. He managed to get a reasonable picture of his new surroundings. The van had arrived in a vast truck bay underneath what appeared to be a large building. Each corner of the concrete expanse overhead was supported by one of those giant pylons rising from shrub plantings at ground level, about eight feet up from the floor of the bay.

The forklift rolled past the front of the van. As the driver leaned out of the cab to hand a delivery ticket to one of the white-smocked men, a female voice blared over a loudspeaker. “Shipment five-oh-seven I-for-Indonesia ex Borneo now arriving at number two gate.”

The voice and the acceleration of the lift truck started the orangutans gibbering and salivating again. Caesar made a few such noises himself, deeming it protective action. By pressing close to the bars, he was able to see the loading dock toward which the forklift was rolling. The white-smocked men below were following the vehicle. Caesar noted with alarm that the men carried short whips, leashes, and those metallic prodding devices he’d observed in the city. To his left, looking out onto the dock, he saw communications operators behind a large window set into a wall. Above the window a glowing sign read: Ape Management Facility 10—Reception.

In that large room behind the window, lights winked on banks of equipment, messengers arrived and departed, and three women bent over microphones, monitoring the arrivals outside. Caesar heard another amplified voice: “Shipment five-oh-nine A-for-Africa ex French Cameroons now arriving at number four gate.”

The forklift bumped the edge of the dock, lowered the cage, began to withdraw its supporting prongs. Wild barkings and snarlings started on the right, further along the dock. There, other handlers were ramming prods into another noisy cage that had been similarly deposited.

“All right,” someone said outside Caesar’s cage. “Open it.”

The bolts snicked. Handlers crowded around, faces tense. Caesar blinked at the men, feigned fearful docility. He was startled to hear one of the handlers exclaim, “For God’s sake! I didn’t know we were getting a chimp in this load.”

The speaker reached into the cage, seized Caesar’s arm, jerked him outside. He was shoved across the concrete dock and in through a steel door that rolled swiftly aside. The handler followed, metal prod held waist high.

Behind him, Caesar heard the cracking of whips, interspersed with an occasional yelp from the apes being hauled out of the cage one by one.

Caesar stopped just inside the entrance of a large, bare chamber. Its left wall was glass, looking into the communications center he’d seen from outside. As his handler shoved him again, the loudspeaker boomed: “After fingerprinting, shipment five-oh-seven I-for-Indonesia ex Borneo will proceed to Conditioning Cages nine-oh-one and nine-oh-two.”

“We’ll have to use one of the chimp cages too,” said Caesar’s handler to a uniformed official waiting at a table beside a metal gate. “Got a ringer in this load. Who’s on duty from the chimp section?”

“Morris, I think,” said the official. He pressed one of several colored buttons on the table. Caesar noticed two state security policemen standing beyond the gate, surveying the new arrivals. From the adjoining communications center, another operator announced: “Immigration personnel are reminded that, until further notice, State Security has requested one, repeat one, additional copy of all chimpanzee fingerprints for their files.”

The uniformed official looked sour. He grabbed Caesar’s hand, pressed it to an ink pad, then forced the hand down on a square of white card stock. He repeated the operation, passing the second card over the barrier to one of the policemen. The policeman slipped the card into a black briefcase.

Then the official touched another button. The gate opened inward, just as a hefty young man with brown eyes and an immense shock of curly hair appeared from the mouth of a corridor. He carried a prod tucked under his arm.

“Yours, Morris,” said the fingerprint official, shoving Caesar forward through the open gate. The ape’s resentment flared again. But he controlled his temper, still slumped over in excellent imitation of a wild chimpanzee.

Morris, the handler, extended his right hand tentatively. After appropriate hesitation, Caesar reached up to grasp the fingers. Morris smiled.

“He looks like a gentle one,” Morris said, leading Caesar toward the corridor.

“Bastard,” came the good-natured complaint from behind. “You’ve got the easy duty with the chimps—dammit, no!”

Caesar turned briefly to see the orangutans lined up in a ragged queue on the far side of the gate. One was being prodded and whipped for having picked up the ink pad. Caesar was glad to enter the corridor and leave the unpleasant sight behind.

The lighted corridor curved, revealing a long row of steel-barred cages, empty. Morris pressed a control panel in the wall next to the cage identified as Chimpanzees 903.

The electrically controlled door rolled aside. Morris pushed Caesar forward. As soon as he was inside, the barred door shut.

Morris pulled a banana out of his pocket, passed it between the bars.

“Enjoy it while you can, my friend. I’ll be back to see you in the morning—when the fun starts.” His lips quirked. “Damned if you don’t look like you understand me.” He turned, vanishing along the corridor.

Shortly, other handlers appeared, each with one or two orangutans in tow. Seated in the dark at the back of his cell, Caesar watched the other members of his shipment being driven into the cages for their species. The ink-smeared orangutan required two handlers, one applying a whip, the other a prod, before he would enter his assigned cage. Blood glistened on the ape’s hairy back.

Finally, the last of the shipment was in place, the cages locked. Caesar remained alone in the chimpanzee cell, suddenly aware that he was exceedingly hungry. He peeled the banana and munched it without enjoyment. He didn’t care for the reference to “fun” made by the handler Morris.

When he tried to sleep, he found he couldn’t. A simmering mixture of anger, worry over Señor Armando’s welfare, and pity for the orangutans in the adjoining cages kept him on edge. The other apes barked and gibbered most of the night.

Now and then Caesar wakened from a doze to hear sounds of vicious fighting: Man has done this to us, Caesar thought. His head nodded in exhaustion. Man . . .

In his mind, the word became an obscene curse. Finally, mercifully, he dropped into total sleep.

In the morning, when a bell rang loudly, he began to learn the meaning of that conditioning.