Breck could not precisely say why he had made up his mind, on the spur of the moment, to visit the auction—perhaps to escape a variety of unpleasant situations in his office at Civic Center.

Kolp had stopped in, haggard. He’d reported that, after days of interrogation—twice interrupted when Armando had to be rushed to the infirmary for injections to repair the ravages of the questioning—the circus owner still persisted in telling his original story. Kolp and Hoskyns were now asking for the governor’s signed permission to employ the Authenticator.

Signed permission indeed! The pretense of civil liberties was a farce, but Kolp and Hoskyns were shrewd enough not to use the device without higher approval.

Breck had dodged the issue. Although widely used by police departments, the Authenticator was, in the view of the forty jurists who sat on the Most Supreme Court in Washington, an instrument of coercion and, therefore, illegal except in matters of national security.

It would be Breck’s decision. The situation didn’t qualify; and yet, he had a deep-seated worry that perhaps, in a peculiar way, it did . . .

Senor Armando’s ape was presumably still at large, unless it had been killed by accident in the city. That probably was too much to hope for, Breck thought in his mood of pessimism. Then there was MacDonald’s curious, unsettling report . . .

That particular problem came back into focus as one of Breck’s young, hard-eyed administrative assistants thrust out a thick binder. “I’m anxious to have you review the latest I.Q. profile on the metro ape sample given the standard tests last week.”

“Don’t hand me big books unless there’s something essential in them.”

The assistant licked his lips, recovered quickly from the rebuff: “I believe there is, sir. The profile of the sample, which is statistically reliable, indicates that the I.Q. of the ape population has risen three point four in the last two-month interval.”

“Let Mr. MacDonald read that,” Breck snapped. “He thinks I’m imagining things about our simian friends. Who, if that report is correct, are not only becoming smarter, but generally more independent. Despite conditioning.”

Breck let MacDonald have the full force of his challenging stare. As always, he was struck by the steadiness of the black man’s gaze. Damn! If he weren’t so good, Breck would demote him instantly. As it was, he simply tolerated him—with difficulty.

With a smug grin, the assistant with the book started to hand the report to MacDonald. The other waved it back.

“I assembled that data, Morgan. Your summary wasn’t thorough enough. I.Q. has shown a slight rise—but as a result, so has work output of the apes.” The black man smiled a hard smile. “Which I thought the governor might regard as good news for a change.”

Breck returned the smile bleakly, turned and walked to the top of the small, open amphitheatre just beyond the pillars.

The impatient conversation of the well-dressed crowd was instantly silenced. Heads turned. A scattering of applause greeted the governor’s arrival. Breck affixed his politician’s smile, and waved in response as he started down the steps of the center aisle.

The amphitheatre was separated from the wide auction platform and central dais by a thick spike-topped wall of concrete. Near the dais, an auctioneer wearing a lavalier microphone acknowledged the governor’s presence with a smile of greeting. Behind the auction area rose a stark, pyramidal structure of concrete where the latest batch of processed apes was held before entering the arena via a doorway flanked by handlers.

Governor Breck moved briskly down the aisle. Briskness, he felt, was good for his image, but he paused a couple of times to favor an acquaintance with a personal word. One such was an orange-coiffured lady attended by an attractive female chimp.

“Mrs. Riley,” Breck nodded. “It was a shame about Leland’s coronary. Is he still in intensive care?”

Mrs. Riley said that was correct, adding, “But I try not to dwell on it. Mr. Governor.”

“Good for you,” Breck smiled, squeezing her shoulder and hurrying on—but not before he caught an almost human glint of amusement in the eyes of the girl chimp. That damned ape was laughing at her mistress! Or was it only a trick of the slanting sun and Breck’s growing, almost maniacal concern about the simian population? He was momentarily disgusted with himself for permitting a probably unrelated series of suppositions, facts, and incidents to weave an alarming pattern. And yet—he governed this city. Should anything go wrong, no one but Jason Breck would be blamed. His career would be finished. Nothing would go wrong. Prevention tinged with paranoia was preferable to disaster.

At the bottom of the aisle, one of the state security policemen snapped to attention and unhooked a plush rope. The governor took a seat in the first row, immediately behind the spike-and-concrete barrier. Unconsciously, he tapped his program against his knee as his staff settled in the rows behind him.

“Start the bidding,” he called. The auctioneer nodded, rapped his gavel. The gleaming alloy door in the face of the pyramid slid aside as the auctioneer’s miked voice boomed. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re offering an exceptionally fine group today, starting with lot number one, a very strong gorilla thoroughly trained in general security duties, including night watch . . .”

For some reason, Breck swiveled around and stared up at the girl chimp sitting beside Mrs. Riley. Thinking the attention was for her, the lady simpered and waved. But Breck’s eyes were on the animal. And something in his mind roared, Now she’s mocking me!

Instantly he faced front. He willed his hand to stop tapping the program on his knee. Guarded, secure, powerful, he was still victim of a nameless, gnawing fear.

From the bottom of the stairs within the pyramidal structure, Caesar stared up at a rectangle of blinding afternoon sky. The auctioneer’s gavel thwacked three times.

“Sold—to Mr. and Mrs. Van Thal!”

Shackles jingled in the shadows. A handler had fetched Caesar from the individual holding cage where he had found the clothing in which he was to be sold. The handler draped the irons over his own shoulder and adjusted Caesar’s high, tight-fitting collar.

Outside, the auctioneer began again. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, lot eight. Perhaps the finest offering of the afternoon.”

Uneasy in the constricting trousers and jacket, Caesar nevertheless responded to the handler’s gentle push of command. He climbed the stairs, stepped out into the daylight.

He was momentarily blinded. But his nose identified the scent of many humans close by, and his ears picked up the sudden murmur of approval that ran through the amphitheatre.

Resplendent in his rich green uniform, Caesar knew his bearing had won him the instant admiration of the people gradually coming into focus. The handler walking a pace behind, the legally required shackles over his shoulder instead of fastened between Caesar’s ankles further strengthening the favorable impression.

Caesar lifted his head, allowing himself just the smallest display of haughtiness. Then, obediently, he trotted forward in response to the handler’s touch.

He waited at the steps at the rear of the dais, vitally interested in the humans gathered to purchase ape flesh. Halfway up in the center section he spied the lady with the orange hairdo, the one he and Armando had encountered on their first day in the city. Beside her sat the attractive female chimp—what was her name, Lisa. She was watching him closely.

Hands in repose at his sides, Caesar confronted the rows of humans and the scattering of ape servants. He noticed that his arrival on the dais had caused many of the spectators to edge forward on their seats; particularly a man who sat by himself in the first row center. Further back in the same roped-off section, Caesar recognized the black man he had seen at the Civic Center.