The governor vanished into the bedroom, slamming the door. Was it coincidence, Caesar asked himself, that Breck had not called him by his chosen name?
With the governor gone, MacDonald seemed to relax. He even smiled as he stepped from behind the bar and headed toward the foyer.
“Come,” he said, gesturing. Caesar followed him out of the penthouse and into the elevators that whisked them to ground level.
Moving from the high rise to the bustle of the Civic Center Plaza reminded Caesar that he still did not know the whereabouts of Señor Armando. What had befallen the kindly circus owner in the past two weeks?
Weaving in and out of the crowds of humans and apes crisscrossing the plaza, Caesar speculated on the significance of the words “command post.” They suggested some kind of important operations center; perhaps a key location for maintenance of order in the city. He was pleased at being taken there, because his mind was opening to more and more possibilities for action. In a relatively short time, he had seen more than enough to fill him with a consuming desire to reverse the balance of power that Breck and his kind maintained. Duty in the command post might further strengthen his capability to do just that.
Concentrating on his new sense of purpose, Caesar gradually and unthinkingly abandoned his shuffling, apelike gait. He walked very nearly upright; proudly, almost like a man. For a moment or so, he didn’t connect this fact with the stares of passing apes.
MacDonald walked rapidly to a stairway leading underground at the side of the plaza opposite the governor’s building. Two state security policemen flanked the head of the stairs. Both wore holstered side arms.
All at once a familiar face appeared, coming up the stairs. It was Aldo, carrying a message pouch. The gorilla’s forehead still showed hairless places where wounds had been stitched. Spotting Caesar, the bigger animal halted abruptly on the top step, then stepped aside. Aldo’s expression was one of puzzled respect and awe.
Caesar realized MacDonald was watching the byplay—and that he himself was standing much too straight. Hunching over, he started on down the steps. But MacDonald’s surprised look showed that he knew something very unusual had just happened.
A state security policeman grabbed Armando’s elbow to keep him from falling.
The older man was too tired even to mumble an acknowledgement. He did not know where he was. All corridors, all rooms in this building, which he hadn’t left since entering it voluntarily, had begun to blur together with a frightening sameness.
Armando knew he was being destroyed. Not with physical abuse, not with starvation, but with a much more subtle form of torture. Disorientation . . .
In those windowless chambers to which he was frequently taken without warning, he never knew whether it was day or night. His food—cups of gray, tasteless pudding; small plastic flasks of a brown nutrient drink—arrived via a pneumatic wall tube.
At intervals a matron opened the door of his cubicle and accompanied him down a short hallway to a bathroom. There he was permitted to relieve himself while the matron watched from the open doorway, disinterested. He was also allowed to sprinkle water on his hands and face.
But no showers. No baths. The sense of his own filthiness increased his anxiety, as did his fretful sleep under the lights. Such sleep came to him only when he reached periods of total exhaustion.
Often, that sleep was interrupted by a summons to yet another interrogation. Some were short. Some seemed to last for hours. Several times he had collapsed during the longer sessions. He had wakened for brief intervals in what appeared to be an infirmary, been injected with a hypodermic, drifted off again . . .
Generally, Kolp and Hoskyns handled the questioning together, going over and over the same ground, trying to get Armando to make a mistake. So far he hadn’t. So far he had withstood the assaults of Kolp, Hoskyns, and the other hard-faced investigators who occasionally replaced them.
But now, stumbling to what he presumed was one more such interview, Armando wondered whether resistance might not, by this time, be totally futile. Surely Caesar had been caught or killed.
“In here,” the policeman said, shoving Armando through a door, then following him.
Armando blinked, attempting to focus his eyes. He couldn’t believe the sensation that came from his slippered feet. Softness. The softness of carpet . . .
The lighting was subdued, the furnishings comfortable, much like the governor’s office where he had first been questioned. Kolp sat at a desk, a pleasant, relaxed expression on his face. Behind him, an open doorway led to a tiny terrace with a waist-high concrete railing.
Armando licked his dry lips, sucking in draughts of the fresh air. He was almost overwhelmed to see the outside world again; lighted towers against the darkness.
Kolp actually stood up, smiled broadly. What was happening?
With a start, Armando realized Hoskyns was also present. He too was smiling. Legs crossed, he relaxed on a divan along the wall.
Kolp took off his spectacles, began to polish them with a tissue. “No more interrogation rooms, Señor Armando. This is my personal office.” To the policeman, he said, “That’ll be all, thanks.”
The officer wheeled and left. Kolp gestured to the chair facing his desk. “Please, Señor. I know you’re exhausted.”
Not quite believing the evidence of his senses, Armando still lost no time reaching the chair. He practically fell into it as Kolp reseated his spectacles on his nose and walked around the desk. He perched on the corner, still smiling.
“I realize we’ve held you an unusually long time, Señor. You’ll understand we were only carrying out our assignment.”
Armando gave a weak nod. He allowed himself to hope that—miraculously—something had happened to change the dreadful pattern of the past days. Kolp’s next remark confirmed it.
“We have some good news for you.”
Armando could only repeat hoarsely, “Good news?”
“Right. You’re to be released. Tonight.”
Armando fought back tears as Kolp went on, “Inspector Hoskyns and I have become convinced that your ape is not the child of the two talking chimpanzees.”
“You’ve found him?” Armando exclaimed.
“I wish that were the case,” Hoskyns said in a pleasant tone, rising and walking over to stand beside Kolp. “But we’re sure he’ll turn up eventually. When he does, we’ll make certain he’s returned to you. We hope you can excuse all that’s happened, Señor Armando. You understand that we have to be thorough—satisfy the higher-ups—”
“Of course,” Armando nodded quickly. “Of course, it’s perfectly understandable. Actually, I’ve been treated very well. It’s just that, at my age, lack of sleep—all the questioning—they have an effect.”
Kolp’s nod was crisp. “Surely. We sympathize. But it was your consistency in telling the same story through a deliberately extended period of questioning that helped convince us.”
“Then—” Armando half rose from the chair. He risked the question. “I’m free to leave here?”
Nodding, Hoskyns picked up a sheet of paper and pen from the desk. “That’s right. Just as soon as you give us your signature on this sworn declaration.”
“What does it say?”
“Only what you’ve been telling us all along,” Kolp answered. “That your circus ape is incapable of human speech, and has never, to your knowledge, uttered a single word.”
A relieved breath hissed out between Armando’s teeth. “Certainly I’ll sign that.”
Hoskyns placed the paper on the desk, handed Armando the pen. The circus owner scrawled his signature on the indicated line.
Kolp stepped away from the desk. So did Hoskyns. “Excellent,” said the latter. “We’ll just check this for veracity, and you can be on your way.”