Conquest of the Planet of the Apes - Jakes John - Страница 21

With only the slightest hesitation, the chimp closed his fingers around the decanter, tilted it, poured the whiskey. Breck slouched in his chair, continuing to watch through tented fingers. The ape set down the decanter and glanced quickly at the governor.

Breck kept staring, his eyes hooded. A peculiar tension filled him, banishing the dull throb in his temples, the sour taste at the back of his throat. The ape knew he was being closely scrutinized. His hand shook noticeably as he lifted the siphon, pressed down on the top control . . .

Soda began to foam over the lip of the glass, puddle the top of the bar. “No!” MacDonald exclaimed, cuffing the chimpanzee lightly on the hand.

In his alarm, the animal nearly dropped the siphon. Only MacDonald’s deft grab rescued it. “Clean it up.” MacDonald indicated the overflow. “Clean, clean!”

Clumsily, bumping the whiskey decanter and the siphon, the chimpanzee began to mop up the spilled liquid. Slowly, Breck’s tension drained away.

He stood up, smiling as he emerged from behind his desk. “It seems he’s not so bright after all.”

“No—but then—” MacDonald grabbed for the siphon, which nearly went over as the chimp mopped with wider, clumsier motions “—isn’t it true that brightness has never been encouraged among slaves?”

“Stop being so damn touchy, MacDonald!” Breck stabbed his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown, stalking to the windows. “We’ve all been slaves at one time or another. I can trace my family back to Breckland, in Suffolk, England. We were the slaves then. To the lord of the manor,” He glanced at Caesar, who was still witlessly mopping the bar with the sopping towel. The ape’s posture and expression registered confusion. “They’re animals,” the governor went on. “What they need is a firm hand. Rub his nose in it so he gets the idea permanently.”

MacDonald was just turning from a small refrigerator, a tray of ice cubes in one hand. For a moment he stared hard at his superior. Breck rankled at the hostility—real or fancied. Then MacDonald smiled politely. “What? And risk having him develop a taste for scotch?”

Breck laughed, as another staff man let himself into the foyer. The man carried a leather-covered binder.

MacDonald emptied the ice tray into an exquisitely engraved silver bucket. He tonged two cubes into the glass he had filled as an example for the ape, handed the drink across to the governor. Then he took the sopping towel from the ape’s fingers and disposed of it below the bar.

As MacDonald again picked up the tongs and began to demonstrate to the animal how cubes were properly dropped into a glass, Breck took a long, soothing swallow and permitted himself a touch of whimsy. “What you suggest might not be a bad idea. Up to a point, alcohol has a tranquilizing effect.” Less amused, he shook his head. “But I imagine their tolerance for whiskey—like their temper threshold—is dangerously low.”

The newly arrived assistant said, “If you feel the ape’s unsatisfactory, Mr. Governor, we can always send him back and insist on a full week’s reconditioning.”

“That’s not necessary,” said MacDonald, fast.

“Indeed it isn’t,” Breck agreed, sipping more of the whiskey. It seemed to be quieting the nervous turmoil of his stomach. “But not because of your soft-hearted reasons.”

The other assistant, looking vaguely annoyed because his attempt to win points had failed, abruptly found himself the subject of the governor’s attention: “That’s always everyone’s first thought—recondition them!” Breck swept his arm out in a broad gesture, spilling some of his drink on the thick carpet.

“Mr. Governor, I only meant—” Sputtering, the flustered assistant turned red. MacDonald handed the silver tongs to the chimpanzee. Clumsily, the ape tried to grasp and lift an ice cube from the bucket. Breck continued.

“If we were to send every lousy ape that muffed an assignment or disobeyed an order back to reconditioning, Ape Management would become impossibly overcrowded!”

A sharp clack whirled Breck around. The ice cube had dropped from the ape’s tongs and hit the bar. It skittered off and struck the carpet as the animal stared at the governor again, transfixed with terror—or something else.

Breck slammed his drink on the desk. He reached the ape with two long strides, smacked him in the side of the head. “Clean!” he shouted, pointing at the cube melting on the rug.

The ape cringed, bent over, retrieved the ice and juggled it a moment. Finding no ready receptacle except one, he dropped the cube back in the ice bucket.

MacDonald uttered a small sigh. He retrieved the cube, carpet fibers still clinging to it, and threw it away in the sink under the bar. The ape immediately took another cube from the bucket and tried to hand it to the black. Sadly, MacDonald shook his head. “No.” Gently, he loosened the ape’s fingers, took the cube and disposed of it in the sink.

Having suffered a tactical defeat in front of another staff man, the second assistant tried to recover a little ground. “Mr. Governor, when I mentioned reconditioning, all I meant was, it’s the only thing that seems to have any effect on the rebellious ones—”

“It certainly does have an effect,” MacDonald nodded. “It makes them worse.”

“There, you’re wrong,” Breck countered. “Some of them couldn’t be worse. I’ve been having a comprehensive list compiled—”

All at once he stopped, the nearly empty glass close to his lips. He’d inadvertently revealed a bit of information that was as yet ultraconfidential. Annoyed, he glared at the younger assistant.

“Exactly what was it you wanted, Mr. Pine?”

“Your meeting with the Defense Council’s scheduled for one, sir.” The assistant held out the thick, heavily tabbed binder. “I brought your reference book, and the briefing summary—”

“Well, you go down to the conference room and tell them I’ll be fifteen or twenty minutes late and that you’ve read the briefing material, and be prepared to answer their questions.”

He grabbed the assistant’s shoulders and fairly shot him toward the foyer. As he did so, he was aware of losing his temper—an indulgence he seldom allowed himself. What was making him so edgy?

His glance fell on the green-uniformed chimpanzee, now poking aimlessly at the ice cubes with the silver tongs. He stormed forward, tore the tongs from the ape’s fingers—“No!”—and hurled the tongs back in the bucket. He was relieved to see the ape avert his eyes and cringe.

Or was the animal playing some kind of game with him?

Breck rubbed his eyes. Christ, he thought, I’m tired.

Dropping the ice cube had been a near giveaway, Caesar realized. But he had been so stunned by the possibilities inherent in Breck’s exclamation about reconditioning that he had completely lost control.

Ever since that moment, he’d been doing his best to rebuild his protective guise, trembling on signal, and appearing less than capable of quick understanding. The effort was doubly difficult because of Breck’s continued presence in the sitting room.

Caesar knew that the governor was an enemy. He couldn’t grasp all the reasons for this, but he guessed that beneath Breck’s bluster there lay a basic fear of the potential for ape rebellion. That fear had surfaced in Breck’s loud remark—which had given Caesar a weapon whose effectiveness he intended to explore . . .

MacDonald remarked: “You’ve begun meeting with the Defense Council, Mr. Governor?” Although polite, the question was a challenge; almost an accusation implying lack of confidence.

Breck nodded. “Mr. Pine’s been handling the details. The nonconfidential ones. Backgrounding, computer studies. As for the rest—never mind, I’ll tell you about it later.”

But MacDonald wouldn’t be put off. “Has this anything to do with the list you mentioned while Pine was here?”