But it was the tanned, handsome, yet cold-featured man seated alone who held Caesar’s attention. The man glanced sharply at his program, then back to the dais. To occupy such a special place, the man was obviously someone of authority. And he seemed to be regarding Caesar with more than a little interest.

“Lot eight is a male chimpanzee,” the auctioneer announced, “in early prime and perfect physical condition. Under observation, he appeared so familiar with humans, so obedient, docile, and intelligent, that the conditioning he required was minimal. In fact, according to the information provided by Ape Management, conditioning was carried out in record time. Additional conditioning can, of course, be provided on request.”

At this, the gaze of the man in the front row riveted on Caesar—who was grateful for a sudden disturbance behind him.

Chains rattled; a man swore. Caesar turned. The handler who had been mounting the dais steps had slipped, fallen to his knees and dropped the shackles. As the man rose and dusted off his trousers, Caesar took two steps to the head of the stairs, picked up the shackles and handed them back with just the hint of a bow. The handler looked astonished, then grinned. Another admiring murmur rippled around the arena.

As Caesar faced front again, he realized that he’d made another of those almost automatic but foolish revelations of extraordinary ability. The crowd was busily commenting on his little bow. Like the handler, many people smiled. But not the tanned man sitting alone. He continued to regard Caesar with unnerving concentration.

Caesar blinked several times, blubbered his lips and slipped into a more normal ape posture. He shuffled sideways on the dais, quickly but subtly losing stature. He hoped he had not dissembled too late.

“As you just saw, ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer said, “a truly superb specimen, adaptable to almost any duties. What am I bid? Shall we begin with eight hundred dollars?”

At once, a man high on Caesar’s left called out, “Eight-fifty.”

“Nine,” came the response from a woman on the opposite side.

The first bidder promptly offered nine-fifty. A third jumped in with a bid of one thousand. The auctioneer looked pleased; this required no effort at all. The bidders kept clamoring, and within seconds, the price escalated to eighteen hundred. That figure seemed to slow the pace.

Caesar searched the tiers for the source of the bid that continued to stand. To his dismay, he saw that the bidder was a sour-looking, wizened old man in a glittering chrome wheelchair.

The auctioneer lifted his gavel. “Going to the gentleman in the wheelchair. And a very wise choice, even at a premium price, if I may say so. Going once, going twice, going—” Abruptly he stopped, diverted by a flurry of activity in the roped-off area. The hard-eyed man in the front row had turned, lifted his program to shield his mouth, and was speaking to the young black, who jumped to his feet and raised his hand.

“Two thousand!”

An exclamation ran through the crowd. From across the curve of the amphitheatre, the old gentleman in the wheelchair directed a furious stare at the black man. The auctioneer gnawed his lip a moment. “Two thousand bid by Mr. MacDonald—”

The old man’s hand went up, his voice querulous. “Twenty-one hun—”

“—for his excellency, Governor Breck?” The auctioneer barely broke the phrases, refusing to be diverted by the start of the other bid. In response to the question, MacDonald nodded once, and sat down.

The auctioneer turned to look with clear meaning at the old man, who hunched down in his chair, sullen. Caesar had heard his purchaser’s name before.

Down came the gavel. “Going—going—gone! Sold to Mr. MacDonald for two thousand dollars.”

For the first time, the tanned man smiled, his gaze still resting on Caesar. The smile was in no way cordial; it was self-congratulatory. Apparently no one dared bid against the city’s governor.

The handler signaled Caesar to leave the dais. Obeying, he was careful to shuffle and maintain his cover. The handler swung into step behind him, saying: “Damn if you didn’t make it right to the top. I knew somebody rich’d buy you. But the governor himself—that’s a plum. You deserve it, though.” He gave Caesar’s head a condescending pat. That touch was hateful. The whole process was hateful. As the handler preceded him back to the pyramid, Caesar kept seeing Governor Breck’s face. Was the governor merely buying a superior slave? Or had Caesar made too dangerous a revelation by picking up the shackles and bowing? Why couldn’t he learn to hold back?

Plunging down the steps into the cool shadows of the building, he was again at war with himself, angry, yet frightened—because the unsettling image of Governor Breck’s suspicious stare refused to leave his mind.

Caesar was kept in the holding cage at the ape mart until the following morning. Then he was loaded into the rear of a van whose gleaming side panels bore the great seal of the city, complete with upraised torch and Latin motto. He was the sole occupant of the locked cargo compartment—another sign of the prestige and power of the man who had bought him.

The van sped toward the city’s perimeter along busy highways. The highways fed into a vast, multilevel vehicle park at the city limits. Handlers were waiting with a light wire cage into which Caesar dutifully marched and, ten minutes later, he was on duty in Governor Jason Breck’s living quarters, atop the same building at Civic Center that housed his operations suite on a lower floor.

Jason Breck had risen late, with a headache and a sour stomach from last evening’s dinner party. Clad in an expensive dressing gown of rare natural wool dyed deep blue, he was busy at the small period desk in his penthouse sitting room.

As the last assistant but one departed through the foyer, Breck belched softly and glanced at MacDonald.

“I think I need a drink. And I know I don’t need a luncheon with a lot of windbag oratory. Where am I scheduled this noon?”

“The honors presentation by the Aesthetics Board.”

“Cancel me out and get me a drink.”

Breck rubbed his forehead and turned his chair as MacDonald bent to murmur into an intercom. MacDonald uttered smooth, convenient lies about the governor suffering an illness. No, nothing serious, but he sent his regrets . . .

Brooding, Breck stared through tented fingers at the high rise towers outside. The room was flooded by noon light mercifully softened by ceiling-to-floor windows of smoked, bulletproof plastiglas. A soft chime range twice. Breck swiveled around.

MacDonald walked to the foyer, admitting two handlers and the robust, green-uniformed chimpanzee Breck had ordered the black man to buy for him yesterday. The handlers presented a paper. MacDonald signed and they left. MacDonald said to the ape: “Come.”

Dutifully, the chimp shambled after him to the bar.

Hardly looks like the same animal, Breck thought, staring at the chimpanzee with a half-lidded gaze. For a moment yesterday, the chimp had appeared almost human. That had triggered suspicion in the governor’s mind, and prompted his sudden instruction for MacDonald to enter the bidding. Now the chimp was plucking nervously at the front of his uniform jacket, a rather foolish, bemused expression in his luminous eyes.

“I still need that drink,” Breck said. “See whether he can mix it.”

MacDonald walked behind the bar, set a decanter of whiskey, a siphon of soda and two glasses on the polished top. To Caesar he said, “Watch.”

The chimp studied MacDonald’s hands as the man poured whiskey into one glass, then squirted in soda, filling the glass about three quarters to the top. MacDonald pointed at the second glass.

“Do.”