“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.
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?