Текст книги "Conquest of the Planet of the Apes "

Автор книги: John Jakes

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TEN

A day’s duty in the Command Post beneath the Civic Center Plaza revealed to Caesar that here indeed was the nerve center of the metro complex.

The huge, brightly illuminated room served as the government’s sensory system. Human beings manned a vast array of computer terminals, message boards, and video monitors that not only kept routine track of conditions in major public areas, but interconnected with state security substations, fire equipment bunkers, hospitals, and similar installations.

The place was constantly noisy with voices and chattering machinery. Alarm bells rang frequently. Quite soon, Caesar understood the full scope of Governor Breck’s ability to maintain order in the city under his charge.

A percentage of the incoming alarms and outgoing responses dealt with situations in which the citizens were obviously served. An attempted robbery resulted in the almost instant deployment of squads of policemen. A flash fire sent crews roaring through the nearest service tunnels aboard silver-and-yellow pumpers. An incident of ape rebellion, or even simple misconduct, produced a barked order for the dispatch of a police team of the appropriate size and strength.

When less urgent, or perhaps confidential, messages required delivery, some of the chimpanzees, orangutans, and gorillas assigned to the Command Post were used for delivery service. Caesar, however, was given a more menial job.

After being fitted with a civilian defense armband—more than half the apes down here wore them, he noted—he was taken by a staff supervisor to a semicircle of computer terminals. There, he was shown how to file stacks of the printout material.

A large file room adjoined the Command Post. The file fronts were color-coded. Red-tabbed printouts went into red wall files, blue into blue, and so on. It was idiot’s work, but Caesar pretended to have a little difficulty learning the basic routine so that later, as he moved slowly through the aisles, feigning perplexity but in reality observing the various work functions, he would not be too closely scrutinized.

MacDonald departed after observing Caesar’s first few minutes of instruction. He promised the staff supervisor that he would return later that night, after he attended a civic banquet with Governor Breck, to check on the progress of the new “volunteer.”

So that was the significance of the arm bands, Caesar deduced. Extra duty. Service to the state, over and above the regular work of many of the apes, whose slow pace Caesar matched with little effort.

His mind constantly sorted and analyzed the incoming sensory data. Not all the apes were working here in addition to laboring for human masters. Aldo, who came and went frequently with message pouches, wore no armband. Caesar therefore decided he was on permanent assignment.

As he was leaving the file chamber, he saw a new arrival—Mrs. Riley’s Lisa. She wore one of the armbands, so in her case, too, it was slavery piled upon slavery. He gave Lisa a warm look of acknowledgement and admiration as they passed one another. Lisa reciprocated with her soft, round eyes.

During trips to the files, Caesar assimilated another fact. The Command Post was apparently vital to security and control of the city since it was so heavily patrolled by helmeted policemen. They guarded the entrances and also kept a close watch on the apes.

Late in the afternoon, a gong rang three times. The puzzled Caesar was suddenly prodded by a nearby policeman.

“Go! Stupid ape. Don’t you know when it’s feeding time?”

Stifling his anger, Caesar followed the other animals shuffling down a corridor that led off one side of the Command Post.

In a sort of scaled-down cafeteria at the corridor’s end, the apes filed past counters where female apes handed out rations of fruit, barely cooked meat, and disposable cups of water. The apes ate standing up; there were no benches or tables provided.

On the way back to the Command Post, Caesar saw another corridor branching off the one to the meal room. A glowing sign pointed the way to Staff Messenger Quarters. He imagined sourly what those “quarters” must be—cells or cages for Aldo and his fellows.

Toward ten-thirty in the evening, Governor Breck, MacDonald, Pine, and two other staff assistants appeared at the foot of the stairs to the street. All wore expensive formal wear. Picking up another sheaf of green-tabbed printouts, Caesar watched obliquely as Breck and MacDonald spoke with a staff supervisor—asking about his behavior, no doubt.

The supervisor accompanied the two as they walked toward Caesar. The supervisor seemed to be nodding and smiling.

An electric bell, more strident than any Caesar had heard before, rang four times. Governor Breck glanced up, scowled. MacDonald darted to a nearby terminal that began to chatter and spew out paper.

Carrying his file material, Caesar started in that direction, interested to know what had put such a strained look on MacDonald’s face—and why the black man was staring at him even as he ripped off the first part of the new printout and passed it to the governor.

Breck read, then exclaimed, “I knew it! I knew that goddam circus owner was lying!”

“Apparently Inspector Kolp put out a four-bell because he thought we were still at the banquet,” MacDonald said, tearing off the next portion rolling from the machine. At the words “circus owner,” Caesar had gone rigid.

Moving along an intersecting aisle, Lisa halted and gave him a puzzled glance. He fought to compose his features as he heard MacDonald summarize the new printout. “But they insist he fell to his death accidentally.”

Breck snatched the paper, scanned it, crumpled it in rage. “While trying to escape. He knew dawn well he’d be exposed by the Authenticator.”

Sickened, Caesar absorbed the full impact of what he’d just heard. He weaved from side to side, his eyes closing. Suddenly a hand touched his arm.

He opened his eyes and saw Lisa standing there trying to steady him.

Trembling, he pulled away from her. He knew that Señor Armando must have died trying to protect him.

“—and the reason he feared exposure,” Breck was shouting, “is because that one talking ape is still alive somewhere! Pine!”

Sadness filled Caesar’s eyes as he stumbled toward the file room. He realized he was risking discovery displaying his emotions. He let the pile of filing material slip from his fingers, and forced a grunt of dismay as it scattered in the aisle.

Armando dead—trying to save him. It was too much to bear . . .

Dimly, he grew aware of Breck’s loud voice again. “Mr. Pine, arrange for full distribution of the Achilles list immediately. Copies to each police substation, including the ones on the city perimeter. Details are left to the individual commanders, but I want every ape on the list rounded up and delivered to the Center for reconditioning by 0600 tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Mr. Governor. Are there offenses to be specified?”

“Violation of Article Four, Paragraph Nine. Each of them is a potentially dangerous threat to state security.”

Caesar watched unnoticed as Pine whirled and ran across the Command Post to a message machine. In a moment, the sequence lights above the machine indicated the operator was busy transmitting the governor’s order. Nearer at hand, MacDonald was saying, “With all due respect, sir, I think I’m entitled to know what the hell is going on.”

“The Achilles list, Mr. MacDonald. Referring to our enemy’s Achilles’ heel.”

“Enemy!” MacDonald blew up. “The apes?”

Breck ignored the protest. “The list contains the name of every ape who has been reported for an overt act of disobedience within the last year. Somewhere within that group, we may find the one we’re after.”

“To charge animals with being threats to state security is nonsense!”

“The charge will do, for our purposes,” Breck returned sharply. “Besides the possibility that it includes the talking ape, the Achilles list constitutes the hard core of our obedience problem. And the time’s come to break every last one. I should have done it long ago.”

“You won’t break them,” MacDonald shot back angrily. “You’ll only aggravate the problem all the more. The action is folly—the list is folly—and I must protest both in the strongest possible terms!”

Deliberately Caesar slowed the pace of his restacking, in order to watch the end of the confrontation. Breck’s tanned cheeks looked mottled. He was furious at the public display of insubordination.

Then he regained control. A couple of sharp glances made those staring return to their work. Breck addressed MacDonald with quiet force. “Very well, Mr. MacDonald. Your protest has been duly noted. But from now on, you’re on special assignment. One assignment only—indefinitely. It’s your job to find that talking ape.”

A sudden kick in the rump almost spilled Caesar head first.

“How long does it take you to pick ’em up, for God’s sake?”

He twisted his head around, knuckling the floor for balance. He came up into a crouch, hatred simmering in his eyes.

“No,” the man barked. “No!”

Caesar cringed—and started shuffling the printout material together, helter-skelter. He hurried away from the scowling supervisor and, a moment later, was safe in the sanctuary of the empty file room. The shock of Armando’s death, coupled with Governor Breck’s sudden and repressive action against the ape population, started him trembling again, not from fear but from a peculiar new determination. It was time to act . . .

He had the capability, the beginnings of a plan, and the advantage that his human masters thus far were ignorant of the fact that he possessed either one.

Starting back toward his work station, he saw that the route to the cafeteria and cage corridors was momentarily clear. Shambling, he headed that way. He succeeded in slipping out of the Command Post proper without detection. Ahead, the concrete hall was empty, the ape feeding room shut down for the night.

Before he could begin to execute the plan he had conceived, he had to verify the extent of his own powers. He intended to do that now. Stealthily, he turned the corner beneath the sign that pointed the way to Staff Messenger Quarters.

As Caesar had suspected, the “quarters” for apes on full-time duty at the Command Post consisted of nothing more than a pair of huge bays in the sides of the extremely dim corridor. The corridor ended in a blank wall. Caesar could only surmise that there was no possible way for the apes to escape, other than back through the Command Post. Trying that, they would surely be beaten or shot down—hence the lack of bars.

He approached the recessed bays in the security of almost total darkness. The only illumination was provided by a single fixture glowing feebly in the ceiling of each bay. There was barely enough light for Caesar to discern forms within the bays.

He crouched by the right-hand wall. His sense of smell told him the inhabitants of the bays were all males. Gradually, staring across into the left bay, he discerned a row of cheap mattresses where apes lay sleeping—some soundly, some restlessly, turning and thrashing with an occasional nightmare squeal or whimper.

Directly under the light fixture, Caesar saw a neatly swept heap of orange and banana peels and a fallen broom. Then he became aware of soft grunting from the darkest corner at the end of the bed-row, out of reach of the light. Silently, he darted across to the edge of the left bay. He could just make out a group gathered in the corner beyond the sleepers. He believed he recognized Aldo, squatting in a semicircle of his fellow gorillas. Then he separated distinct voices from the almost continuous grantings. It was a meeting—a group council of those who did not care to, or could not, sleep.

Drawing in a long breath, Caesar took eight swift paces into the bay. He stepped over the broom and halted by the litter, directly under the glowing fixture. It haloed his head with an eerie radiance.

“Aldo,” he said.

He did not speak loudly. He remained motionless as the grunting suddenly stopped. Massive heads turned. Great eyes glinted from the darkness. On a nearby pallet, a gorilla wakened. He saw Caesar, and went crawling to the head of his mattress, whimpering in fear.

“Aldo,” Caesar repeated, quietly, gently. “I am speaking to you. Come here.”

From the huddled group crouching in the darkness there came snufflings, snortings of fright. Caesar raised a hand, palm up. “There is nothing to fear. Come.”

Caesar was not sure that his entire meaning would be communicated to the gorilla. But the sense of it was. Aldo rose, huge shoulders hunching. He shambled forward keeping his head averted as if he dared not look on the splendid, upright animal who had spoken in the human tongue—the ape whose head was bathed in glow from the ceiling.

Aldo stopped within a pace of Caesar, who slowly turned his hand over and laid it reassuringly on the gorilla’s shoulder. “Aldo,” he said, “I cannot stay with you long. But there are things that you and I and our fellow creatures must begin to do. I will show you. I will help and teach you. We will teach others. And then we will no longer be treated with cruelty. We will no longer be slaves, Aldo—watch . . .” Bending down, Caesar snatched up the broom, holding it aloft under the light so that it was clearly visible to the waking apes along the bed row, and to Aldo’s cronies emerging ever so slowly from the back corner. With a savage grimace, Caesar brought the broom’s handle down across his lifted knee and snapped it in half. Then he handed one of the pieces to Aldo.

Without even a “Do!” command, the gorilla peeled his lips back in pleasure and imitated Caesar perfectly. He lifted his leg and cracked the half of the broom handle in half again. Then he stamped both halves beneath his feet with obvious pleasure.

Again Caesar laid his hand on the gorilla’s shoulder. He let pride and admiration shine from his eyes as he said, “Good. We understand one another, even if every word I speak is not familiar to you. I must go back before I am missed—” He hardly paused for breath, realizing that the act of speech, in itself, has a transfixing effect upon the gorillas now shuffling forward to crowd around him. “—but I will come again. And we will begin to repay the human beings for the way they treat us. Wait for me.” And with a last gentle squeeze of the gorilla’s shoulder, Caesar turned and walked from the bay. With cold, vicious pleasure, he knew now that what he had in mind could succeed.

After he had taken a few steps, noises in the bay caused Caesar to turn and glance back. He saw gorillas grabbing bits of the broom, using their teeth and hands to break them wrathfully into ever-smaller fragments.

ELEVEN

In Señor 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 Señor 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?”

Caesar continued to pack the items into his hamper. He had to squeeze the lid down to close it on all the groceries. He felt extremely self-conscious carrying the clearly labeled kerosene can out in the open. With his eyes on the pavement, he hurried through the plaza, already a few minutes late.

Angling toward the public washroom where the rendezvous had been set, Caesar suddenly spied one of Aldo’s gorillas. He carried three message pouches.

Caesar caught up with the huge ape and used a series of soft guttural sounds to communicate. The gorilla blinked in response, and moved off toward the restaurant where the busboy had purloined the steak knives.

Quickening his stride, Caesar shortly reached the passageway beneath the sign reading PUBLIC FACILITIES. He approached the third door, the one marked with the drawing of an ape. He hesitated before entering. If things failed at this point, then his vision of communication among enslaved apes in the city—communication for the purpose of organization—would ultimately prove unrealistic. Well, better know it now. He pushed through the door into the ape washroom and took three steps, to a row of cheap metal basins affixed to the inner wall. A single lighting fixture in the ceiling served the entire row.

On his right, Caesar noted a small white table and chair. A female attendant, unseen when he walked in, quickly vacated the chair. She was old, he saw; her shoulders were bent from perpetual labor. She gazed at Caesar with an expression akin to worship. Then, a simple gesture indicated that the chair and the desk belonged to him—at his pleasure.

But what excited him most were the apes emerging from their grumbling parlay in the dark. Three mature female gorillas—and even a female orangutan. Aldo had understood after all. More important, he had remembered, spread the word, and completed the necessary arrangements. The female apes carried red shopping cards. Caesar nodded briefly to indicate his pleasure.

The quartet of females watched him closely. He made his moves deliberate. He placed his hamper of groceries below one of the basins. Then he held the kerosene container in the light and looked inquiringly at the chimpanzee cleaner. She pointed toward the dark rear of the washroom, and Caesar followed her gesture, circling the other apes without so much as a glance. He must show confidence, even a little arrogance, to maintain and build the leadership status he required for his plan.

The cleaning attendant kicked aside some pieces of orange rind lying outside the last of a row of cubicles. She pushed the door inward and held it, standing aside so Caesar could enter. The toilet cubicle was almost pitch black—another splendid example of the amenities the ape masters provided for their slaves!

Caesar placed the kerosene container squarely in the cubicle’s rear corner, between toilet and partition. One container was hardly enough, but soon many others would be stockpiled there.

He marched out of the cubicle and back up the aisle, followed by the attendant. With an air of authority befitting a military officer, he seated himself at the small white table and signaled to the first of the four waiting females.

The orangutan presented her red shopping card. Caesar took his pen from his pocket. After a study of the handwriting on the card, he forged another item—an additional gallon of kerosene.

Returning the card to the orangutan, he said, “Go. Then—” He touched the writing on the card, pointed to the rear cubicle. He repeated this twice. Comprehension dawned in the organutan’s eyes. She clutched the card to her stomach, turned and hurried out of the washroom. She looked happy.

The next two cards gave Caesar the chance to order two more gallons of kerosene. The third gorilla’s card presented an even better opportunity, because the last instruction read: “Collect repaired Colt .45.” Again, imitating the handwriting carefully, he added “100 rounds ammunition for above.”

As he was about to return the card, the washroom door opened. He jumped up, alarmed—but relaxed a moment later. The new arrival was the chimpanzee busboy who had pocketed the pair of steak knives. What pleased Caesar even more was the fact that the messenger gorilla to whom he’d given instructions in the plaza had successfully carried Caesar’s message.

Resuming his seat, Caesar gestured the busboy to the table. He patted the top. From a pocket, the busboy produced his two steak knives. Then, from another pocket, two more. Caesar was surprised and delighted—but the busboy still wasn’t finished. He tugged up the front of his jacket and, from the waistband of his trousers, pulled a large butcher’s cleaver.

He flourished the cleaver with glee. The massive blade caught the light and gleamed as the busboy proudly thunked the weapon down beside the knives.

“Good,” Caesar said. “Very good.”

The sound of Caesar’s voice excited the busboy. He glanced from the cleaver to Caesar with complete understanding. Rising, Caesar scooped up the weapons. “Come.”

The busboy followed him as he paced back into the darkness again, the cleaning attendant at their heels. In the very back corner of the aisle, Caesar had spotted a refuse container. He passed the cleaver and knives to the busboy and carried the container into the cubicle hiding the kerosene. He removed the container’s lid and gestured.

The busboy squeezed by him, following the pointing hand. Carefully, the busboy laid the knives and cleaver on the bottom of the container. He stepped back, lips peeled from his teeth in a grin. Caesar wished Governor Breck might see that kind of grin.

He would. In due time.

Caesar leaned down so that his palm was deep inside the refuse container, just above the weapons. He began to lift his hand slowly, to suggest a rising level. He said to the busboy, “We must have more. Many more. Tell others.”

He restated the instructions in a series of short yips and barks, to be certain the busboy understood. He did and he nodded, his eyes alight with cruel pleasure.

Caesar pushed the container against the cubicle wall, accepted the lid which the attendant handed him, put it on top of the container, and gestured the others out.

In the aisle, he conducted still another demonstration. Pretending to be a new arrival in the washroom—he bent into a caricature of an ape that caused the female gorilla to cover her mouth and gurgle with amusement—he shambled toward the rear cubicle. Abruptly dropping his role, he seized the shoulders of the startled attendant and shifted her so that she blocked the cubicle’s entrance. As if speaking to the new arrival, he said, “No.” He shook his head. “Out of order—not in use—no.”

The cleaning attendant registered comprehension. Satisfied, Caesar walked up the aisle again and spent a long moment in thought. It would not be easy to convert conditioned slaves into fighters, but it would not be impossible. Patience, plus the submerged resentment of the apes themselves, could bring about the transformation. Caesar had convinced himself of that much. And it was accomplishment enough for one day.

With a polite little bow, he indicated that the elderly attendant might have her table again. When she sat down, her shoulders did not slump quite so much. The table had changed from a symbol of servitude to a post of importance.

Caesar picked up his hamper, surveying the dim chamber one last time. Yes, it would serve admirably as an arsenal. He could now begin to widen the scope of his operations and to establish, via instructions to other apes, similar arsenals in dozens of other washrooms throughout the city. With a last, brief nod of approval, he went out into the daylight.