Kolp jabbed his spectacles higher onto the bridge of his nose, then tugged a paper from Hoskyns’s file. “According to the case records, the police found a baby chimpanzee at your circus.”

Armando displayed a little more confidence—even pride.

“Indeed they did. The only chimpanzee ever to be born in a circus—and legally certified to have been born a month before the talking apes arrived on Earth! Doesn’t your file contain that documentation too, sir?” Despite his mild tone, the question was a challenge.

“Of course it does,” Hoskyns retorted. “But there are forgery experts available, mister. There’s not a document in the world that can’t be falsified with enough time and cash.”

Kolp gestured the remark aside. “All right, let’s stick to the issue.” He confronted Armando, scowling down at him. “Where’s the ape now?”

Armando shrugged in a helpless way. “I told you—I wish I knew. I’m worried about his safety. After hunting for him for awhile, I decided perhaps I’d better check with the authorities. I don’t want my star performer hurt or shot by accident. I heard loudspeaker announcements in the plazas. That’s why I plead with you to let me continue the search—while you revoke any orders you may have issued for his apprehension.”

The sound of Breck’s hand smacking the desk was as loud as a pistol shot. “I’ll decide what orders are revoked, and when.”

Armando blinked, bobbing his head. “Yes, sir. Of course. I’m sorry.” Defenses cracking again, Breck thought. Good. Armando added, “It’s just that my worry over the animal is all consuming, Mr. Governor.”

“I have matters of considerably greater scope to worry about, Senor. I don’t believe you yet understand the seriousness of the problem. Your circus travels mainly out in the provinces, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you are probably unaware of the rising tide of disobedience—of downright defiance—among the servant apes. It’s happening not only here, Senor, but in every major metro complex across the country.”

MacDonald cleared his throat. Breck threw an irritated glance his way, but the black remained unruffled. “Mr. Governor,” he said, “on investigation, many of the reported offenses have proved to be minor—”

“The gorilla down below trying to bash in human heads with his chains—minor? Refusing to carry out his messenger assignment and wandering around as he damned pleased—that’s minor?” Breck realized his temper had flared; he couldn’t help it. “And what about the ape that was killed while trying to escape from the city last night? Would you characterize his offense as minor, Mr. MacDonald?”

In a quiet voice MacDonald answered, “No sir, I would not. But—”

“The ape they shot last night physically assaulted his own master!”

“Only after what must have been extreme provocation, sir. I saw the photos this morning. Over and above the bullet wounds, the ape’s entire body was a mass of scars and welts inflicted by beating—”

“Which he no doubt richly deserved!” Control, Breck thought—control! A small vein in his forehead pulsed as he wheeled toward the terrace. “God knows how many more there are just like him! All burning with resentment, all primed and ready, all—”

He wheeled again, to deliver the remark straight to the suspect. “All waiting, Senor Armando. Waiting, let’s say, for one ape with enough will and intelligence to lead them. An ape that can think. And talk.”

He drew a deep breath, both to let his words sink home, and to regain his composure. For a moment he’d allowed his subconscious fears to surface. But damn it, it was time his associates grasped the perilous potential of the situation. Especially MacDonald, who at times could be an unrealistic bleeding-heart about the ape population.

By the time he spoke again, Jason Breck’s voice was quiet and forceful as it had been at the start of the interview. “I want to ask you one more question, Senor. I can’t impress upon you too strongly that you had better answer with the truth.”

“Of course, naturally I will, sir. My whole purpose in coming here—”

“Shut up,” Hoskyns said, so harshly that Armando started.

Breck flicked Hoskyns a glance of appreciation, sat on the desk close to the suspect. He inclined his head forward, both palms resting on his knees. His eyes bored into those of the older man.

“Did your ape ever talk, Senor Armando? Or show any sign whatsoever of being articulate in your presence?”

“Never!” Armando exclaimed instantly: “Not in my presence or anyone else’s. You can question my circus hands—”

“We intend to do exactly that. Meanwhile, you’ll remain in our custody. Take him out.”

And Breck wheeled and returned to the terrace, hearing Armando’s renewed protest that he needed to find his chimpanzee before an accidental bullet brought him down.

Breck gripped the terrace rail. He noted with a shock that he was holding so tightly that his knuckles were white. He jerked his hands back, forced them to his sides. He drew long, deliberate breaths.

When Breck turned again, only MacDonald remained in the richly furnished office. His black face was unreadable.

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.