Caesar turned back to Lisa. “The freaks in Armando’s circus were different. These people are the end-products of nuclear radiation. Their minds have been . . .”

Lisa gestured. A not-in-front-of-the-child gesture. She preceded Caesar to the privacy of their bedroom. Caesar followed her, insisting, “They’re mutated, Lisa—and they’re mad!” He slammed the door shut behind him.

The noise startled Cornelius’ squirrel. Ricky jumped out of the still open cage and through the window. He scampered up a tree and into the night. “Ricky!” yelped Cornelius. He jumped for the window, then hesitated. He looked back. His first impulse was to call his parents, but their quarrel behind the closed door was still continuing. Noisily. Lisa was saying, “No madder than your gorillas. Aldo is bawling for guns.”

Cornelius acted on his own initiative. He climbed out of the window. Still in his nightshirt, he scampered up the same tree after his squirrel. “Ricky,” he called. “Ricky!”

The squirrel was chittering in a nearby tree. Cornelius grabbed a nearby vine and swung across, landing on a lower bough. Ricky looked down at him, chittered again, then turned and ran up the trunk. Cornelius scrambled after him.

Ricky stopped and chattered angrily. He ran out across a branch and leaped into the next tree. “Gorillas!” cursed Cornelius. It was the worst word he could think of. He followed the squirrel.

He landed in the new tree just before Ricky had leaped for a third. The small gray squirrel was a blur in the night, running and stopping, chattering and running again. He leaped from tree to tree, leading the little chimpanzee on a merry chase. Cornelius was always at least two trees behind. Up trunks, across boughs, through leafy corridors, along twining branches, and over into the next tree to do it all again. “Smelly gorillas!” said Cornelius.

Ricky went from tree top to tree top until suddenly he was in the last tree in the grove. There was no place left to leap to. He paused indecisively on the end of a long, thin bough. Beneath it glowed the embers of a campfire with hulking ape figures squatting around it. Cornelius began to stalk his pet, silently moving out along the bough. “Dirty, smelly gorillas!” he said to himself. The leaves of the tree kept getting in his way, but they concealed him from the figures below.

General Aldo, was busy haranguing his troops. “An army without guns has no power!” Aldo was insisting. There were animal sounds of assent. The gorillas nodded and grunted in agreement. “We need power!” Aldo growled.

Cornelius froze to immobility. Dirty, smelly gorillas, indeed!

“Guns! Guns are power. We shall get them,” declared Aldo. “And we shall keep them!”

The gorillas agreed excitedly. They bounced and fidgeted restlessly. “Guns!” they echoed. “Yes, guns! Guns! We want guns!”

“With guns we shall smash humans—all humans!” Aldo’s expression gleamed with eager anticipation. “And after that . . .” He made a contemptuous gesture. “. . . we smash Caesar!”

Cornelius started at the sound of his father’s name. The bough moved, so slightly that no one would have noticed it except Ricky, who, quick as only a frightened squirrel could be, leaped from the bough to the ground and escaped. He chattered into the darkness beyond the fire.

Automatically, the gorillas looked up.

And saw Cornelius. His nightshirt showed almost luminously white against the night. It reflected back the glare of the fire. So did his frightened face. He was clearly recognizable to the gorillas as he clutched his precarious position on the middle of the branch.

The gorillas froze. One or two jumped to their feet. Aldo was already standing, angrily glaring. “It’s Caesar’s son!” he declared.

The other gorillas rose silently, massively, to their feet, staring into the tree.

“He’s been listening to us,” said Aldo. Without thinking, he drew his sword. The blade flashed in the orange light.

General Aldo began to climb the tree.

Cornelius huddled against the branch and whimpered silently. His eyes were white with fear as Aldo came toward him, higher and higher, closer and closer. Aldo’s face was rigid with anger. He held his sword between his teeth like a pirate. The gorillas watching from below grunted in support of their leader.

“Cornelius,” said General Aldo. “Come down.”

Cornelius shivered pathetically. He was too frightened even to shake his head.

Aldo growled and kept climbing. The tree swayed threateningly, and he paused. He surveyed the situation. The branch Cornelius clung to was too thin to support the weight of a full-grown gorilla. But maybe . . . maybe he could reach the chimp . . .

Aldo leaned as far as he could and made a grab. His big black paw missed Cornelius’ foot by inches. He roared with frustration through his clenched teeth and made another grab. Again he missed. “Come down, you little . . .! Come down, or else!”

He took the sword from his mouth so he could speak more easily. “Come down, Cornelius!” He waved the weapon threateningly. Cornelius only clung tighter to the branch. Aldo began flailing at him, trying to frighten him, trying to knock him down, trying to get the little . . .

Aldo stopped, suddenly realizing. Even if he did bring Cornelius down, the little chimp would eventually tell his father. And then Caesar and the other apes would learn of his ambitions. No, that wasn’t a good idea.

Aldo’s arm stopped in mid-stroke, nicking Cornelius’ branch. Hmm, that gave him an idea. Suddenly, he knew how he could solve his problem.

He drew his sword back slowly and took careful aim. He struck. Ka-thwunk! The sword bit deeply and viciously into the branch. Again, kathwunkkk! The whole tree shook with the impact. The sword rang in his hand. Aldo took a firmer grip on the tree trunk for better leverage and began hacking steadily, firmly at the branch. With each stroke, Cornelius uttered a soft, childish whimper.

The big gorilla ignored the sound. He concentrated on his chopping. The blade bit into the bough, a little farther each time. His arm swung repeatedly up and down; his sword flashed over and over again.

“Father,” moaned Cornelius. “Father!” His throat was almost paralyzed with fear.

Down below, the other gorillas watched. Their faces were marked with uncertainty.

Abruptly, the branch cracked—

“Father!” Cornelius screamed. “Father!”

Lisa woke suddenly and sat up straight. “What . . .?”

“Huh?” mumbled Caesar, half-asleep.

“I thought I heard something. Cornelius?” she called.

Silence. She must have been dreaming. She settled down again.

And then the sound came again. A distant scream, cutting off abruptly.

This time Caesar heard it too. They both came wide awake now. “I dreamed he was calling for you,” said Lisa. She got out of bed and ran for the next room, Caesar following close behind. “Cornelius!”

She gasped. His bed was empty. So was Ricky’s cage. “Cornelius!”

Heedlessly, she ran from the room and swung herself down from the tree house. “That was Cornelius I heard!” Caesar followed her as she ran through the grove.

Ahead were two weaving torches moving in the same direction. MacDonald and Doctor.

“We heard a scream,” shouted MacDonald to Caesar.

“It sounded like a scream of pain,” added Doctor.

Caesar halted. “Cornelius is missing,” he panted. Lisa didn’t stop. She ran blindly, instinctively, toward the far end of the grove. Caesar, MacDonald, and Doctor moved after her; Caesar poured out a jumble of thoughts. “Ricky’s cage was open. His squirrel must have . . .”

There was a terrible cry. A long-drawn wail of anguish.

“Lisa!” Caesar broke and ran. He forgot everything and dashed through the trees toward the sound until he came to the grove’s end, where Lisa was sitting, cradling her son in her arms, like the legendary, long-lost Pieta.