Planet of the Apes 01 - Man the Fugitive

by George Alec Effinger

  Just at that moment, Anto walked up curiously to hear what the mounted gorilla was saying. The Patrolman’s words made the young ape think. Possibilities opened up in his imagination that seemed likely to solve all of the problems he had learned to live with.

  Anto wondered what he ought to do. If he kept silent, he might be throwing away an opportunity to bypass the rigid code that tied him to his father’s farm and kept Anto from starting his own life. But if he did speak up, he would blatantly defy his father, something that Anto, for all his impatience to be independent, did not wish to do. He loved and respected his father too much.

  His conflict resolved itself. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something when his mother noticed what was evidently happening in her son’s mind. She forestalled a potentially unpleasant scene by speaking up herself. “Humans?” she asked innocently, in the heavy rural dialect of a country wife.

  The gorilla laughed at the stupidity of the woman. “Of course, humans,” he said. “What else?”

  Zantes shrugged. “We are just poor tenant farmers,” she said. “What would we be doing with bonded humans?”

  The Patrol gorilla glanced around. The answer to that deceptively naive question was simple: concealing them. “If you see them,” said the gorilla slowly, “report immediately. You know the penalty.”

  Polar nodded gravely. “We know the penalty,” he said.

  The gorilla turned to Anto. He had noticed the young ape’s anxious expression of a moment before. “Are you dumb?” asked the Patrolman. “Do you know the penalty?”

  Anto hesitated. He saw his mother and his father staring at him, waiting for him to answer. “I know,” he said at last. “Yes, I know the penalty.”

  The gorilla reveled in his authority. “If you see a stray human,” he said, “report at once.” The Patrolman gave each member of Polar’s family a searching look. They stared back with idle curiosity, showing no sign that they comprehended what the soldier told them. The gorilla shook his huge, shaggy head resignedly. How he hated these stupid farmers!

  The family watched as the Patrol gorilla spurred his horse ahead and galloped away. Remus waved. Anto stared after the uniformed gorilla. “I wonder if there’s a reward,” he said. The elder son glanced at his father, who gave him a stern look back. Then Polar turned away.

  Virdon and Burke watched the scene anxiously from the barn, peering through the door as the horseman left.

  Since the two astronauts had crashed back on Earth, although an Earth nightmarishly different than any they had known, they had spent many unpleasant hours hiding to protect themselves. They had lied to conceal their identities, and stolen when forced to in order to feed themselves. There were only two choices for Virdon and Burke, the same two choices that were available to the other humans living in the ape-dominated world: docile subservience to the apes, which meant soul-numbing slavery, or death. To make the situation worse, Virdon and Burke carried with them the additional worry that they were unlike other humans. The Supreme Council of Elders, the governing body of the apes, wanted the two astronauts, to extract information from them. Urko, the gorilla leader of all police and military forces, wanted them. He wanted them dead, before the two men could stir up the human slave revolt Urko feared so deeply.

  And so, like so many times before, Virdon and Burke watched quietly while others determined their fates. “That didn’t look like one of Urko’s men,” said Burke.

  Virdon shook his head. “Don’t kid yourself,” he said. “He was some kind of local patrol. But they’re all Urko’s men.”

  Both men wore expressions of deep concern. Behind them, the cow that Anto guarded so jealously mooed uncomfortably. Burke turned to her. “Don’t tell me your troubles,” he said. “We’ve got our own problems.”

  SEVEN

  The fields that adjoined Polar’s farmhouse were planted in several different crops. The chief money crop was corn: corn fed the vegetarian apes and the animals. Corn was ground for meal, and was fermented into an alcoholic beverage. A large percentage of the corn was paid to the landowner. Most of the rest of the acreage was planted with vegetables and fruit trees to feed the farm family. There was rarely enough surplus to bring in extra money. Polar’s family scraped by, year after year, just enough in debt to the landlord to keep them under his control.

  The tilled land was a scene of heavy farmwork during the day. Everyone in the family helped, and now, with Virdon and Burke to join in, the burden of labor was eased a little for the apes. For Burke and Virdon, however, there was more physical work than they had been called upon to perform in a very long time.

  Anto, with an ox hitched to a crudely manufactured plow, was making a long furrow. He came down a sloping hill parallel to several other vertical tracks. The elder son of Polar came closer to where his father and Virdon were carrying unearthed boulders from the rugged field to a fencerow of rocks that had been plow-breakers over the years.

  The adult ape and the blond astronaut heaved their boulders onto the growing pile. Polar watched Virdon from the corner of his eye, nodding with satisfaction: this human was, as Virdon had claimed, good help. He was help that was much needed around the farm.

  “Rocks,” said Virdon, wiping the dripping sweat from his face. “There’s no end to them. The earth keeps turning them up, the plow keeps banging into a fresh supply every year.”

  Polar glanced at Virdon with curiosity. “How do you know?” he asked.

  “Oh, I know,” said Virdon, looking at the pile of boulders with genuine resentment. “I lifted half the rocks in Jackson County when I was a boy.”

  Polar shook his head. “You keep talking strange,” he said. “There is no such place.”

  Virdon paused and wiped his face again. “There was,” he said quietly.

  Polar shook his head again. He turned a little to watch Anto’s plowing as the ape youth came down the hill toward them. “It’s a bad field,” said Polar resignedly. “But we need it. We need every square foot.”

  Virdon looked with Polar at the badly eroded hillside, deep gullies cutting into it, carved by the passage of running water.

  “It’s going to get worse every year,” said Virdon. It was obvious to him that the apes knew as little about farming technology as they did about other facets of their lives. “The field will just keep deteriorating as long as you plow it like that.”

  Polar was amazed to hear a human being offering advice on fanning techniques to a farmer who had worked the soil his entire life. “What?” asked the ape.

  Virdon walked to the rock pile without another word and picked up a large earthen jug of drinking water that Polar had carried with him from the house. Then he turned back to the ape. “Come on,” said Virdon, “I’ll show you.”

  Virdon led Polar to the plowed area that Anto had just finished, at the bottom of the hill. Anto was sweating profusely, and he paused for a moment to rest. He leaned against the plow, ignoring the pull of the ox, watching his father and the human curiously. He half expected to get a reprimand for his laziness from Polar, but his father said nothing. Polar seemed intent on what Virdon was doing. Anto waited, letting the rest of the plowing go until later.

  Virdon stopped at the freshly turned earth. Anto noticed, and thought that the human was going to criticize the job he had done. Anto layed the reins on the plow and walked up next to Virdon; the ape youth certainly wasn’t about to take any kind of judgment from a human being.

  Virdon knelt in the moist dirt, smoothing out a piece of the fresh earth. With a forefinger he made vertical lines in it. He set the jug of water down on the ground beside him. Then he looked up at Polar, who was watching in bewilderment; it seemed to the ape that Virdon was playing in the dirt like any child.

  “Look,” said Virdon, indicating the miniature hill he had built, “when you plow up and down that hill, like you’re doing now—” He poured water from the jug onto his model. “—Every time it rains, the water washes more of your topsoil off.” Virdon pointe
d at the effect the water was having on his small hill. “Look, see? You start getting gullies.” Virdon looked up at the plowed hill above him. “They get so deep. They steal your land. You have to work around the gullies.”

  Anto did not understand what Virdon was driving at. He snorted contemptuously. “Playing in mud!” he said.

  Virdon moved over in the dirt a little. He smoothed out another small hill, like the first. “Now,” he said, “if you’d plow around the hill instead . . . like this . . .” He made a series of small horizontal furrows circling the model hill. “Now, every time it rains—” He poured more water from the jug. “—The furrows would hold the water, saving it for your crops, and preventing the rain from running off with the rich soil on top. And you don’t get the gullies. See?” Virdon looked up at Polar, waiting to see if his lecture had impressed the farmer.

  Polar glared down for a long moment, naturally not trusting anything that Virdon had to say. But the thought that the human might actually have a way to save them all work, and increase the productivity of the farm finally won him over. He knelt and scrutinized the results of Virdon’s two experiments. He was amazed by the simple demonstration. “Look!” he cried to Anto. “See, it’s true! Just like he says.”

  Virdon realized that the admission was a difficult one for the ape farmer to make. He was not only allowing that someone might teach him something new about his own life’s work, but taking that the knowledge from a human. That Polar could admit this made Virdon respect him even more.

  Anto was not so impressed. The elder son spat on the ground beside Virdon. He was bewildered that his father could be so easily and quickly tricked by the human, especially after all the years of mistrusting the creatures. Anto knew better; Anto would not be so gullible. “It’s foolishness,” he said. “Everyone knows that plowing down the hill is the ox’s rest from plowing up it. Any other way is foolishness. Going around the hill makes it hard work the entire time.”

  Polar stood up, smiling at Virdon. It was apparent that he had not put much store in his son’s words. He was pleased with the discovery; it promised much for Polar and his family, and that was what the ape cared about. It was the overriding factor, submerging even the source of the new wisdom.

  Anto walked over to Virdon’s two small hills and stamped them flat. He snorted in disgust. Polar paid no attention. He still had some doubt of his own, but that was more about Virdon’s background than about the science he taught. “You learned this where?” asked the ape.

  Virdon gazed wistfully across the rows of crops. “My family owned a farm. When I was young.”

  Virdon’s words brought a quizzical look from Polar, a look that the blond astronaut did not see. Virdon was seeing in his mind’s eye the farm where he had grown up; he saw his family again, each person dead now, dead for so long . . .

  Polar interrupted Virdon’s musings. The ape farmer spoke to his elder son with determination. “We’ll do it,” he said. “We’ll plow around, like the human says.”

  The reaction from Anto was predictable. The young ape made his large hands into fists and pounded the air. He kicked at clods of newly-plowed earth. His rage was directed at more than simply the novelty of Virdon’s idea; somehow, Virdon realized, Polar’s acceptance of the plowing innovation represented a threat to Anto.

  “Then he’ll plow around,” shouted Anto. “I’ll have no part of it.”

  Virdon looked at Polar, who shrugged helplessly. Anto stormed away from them in anger. Virdon looked disappointed; he had tried to give the apes a gift of knowledge, and he was treated with suspicion.

  “Don’t mind him,” said Polar, sighing. “He’s just worried about his bull calf. He is tied to this farm and to his childhood until he gets that bull. It is much on his mind.” The ape was silent for a while, and Virdon didn’t wish to intrude on Polar’s thoughts. At last Polar jerked a hand toward the field. “Show me,” he said. “I’ll try.”

  Virdon smiled. “There’s nothing to it,” he said. “It’s easy.”

  Polar looked around at Virdon quickly. “But you lie, don’t you?” he asked slyly.

  Virdon was puzzled. “Lie?” he said, not understanding what Polar could mean. “No. You’ll see.”

  Polar shook his head. “No,” he said, “I don’t mean about the furrows.” The ape stepped closer to Virdon, curious about where the human had come from, where he had learned this thing. Polar liked Virdon, despite his life-long aversion to human beings. He wanted Virdon to realize that Polar was willing to accept the astronaut if the false pretenses were dropped. He spoke in confidential tones. “I mean about your family owning a farm,” he said. “Only apes ever own farms. Then it’s only the rich ones who have friends in the government . . .”

  Virdon stared out over the cultivated lands, toward the hills standing gray-green in the distance. His expression was resigned: there was nothing that he could say or do that could change what had come to pass.

  During the time that Virdon had been showing Polar and Anto his idea about plowing, Burke was busy building a fence, supervised by Remus. Burke had split timbers into rails, and was now constructing a sturdy rail barrier from them. He carried a long length of rail from the pile he had made and inserted it on top of the previous interlocking section. Remus had watched for some time, and now began jumping around vehemently behind Burke, protesting. “No, no, no!” shouted the younger son of Polar. “Stop! I order you to stop!”

  Burke carried the rails to their positions, ignoring for the moment the ranting of the young ape. Finally he had enough. He set the rail in position and turned around. His face was dripping with sweat and he was too tired to put up with any more of Remus’ tirade. “Look, lieutenant,” said Burke, “I can’t work with you shouting at me all the time.”

  Remus was amazed at just how stupid this human being was. Everything that Remus’ father and brother had said was true—only apes could do things right. That was said, because slaves should give the masters more time to do the things that apes liked to do. Now it seemed to Remus that he would have to undo all of Burke’s foolishness and fix the fence himself. “That’s the wrong kind of fence,” said Remus disgustedly.

  “You show me a bale of barbed wire and I’ll build you a proper one. Right now, this is the best that I can do.”

  “Poles!” said Remus, wondering how long it would take Burke to catch on to the idea. “You set poles up and down, stuck in the ground, next to each other. Like that.”

  He pointed to a fence on the far side of the field where Burke had been working. It was a fence as Remus described, constructed of poles cut to a uniform length, buried partially in the ground and standing up close together. It was half fallen, like a flimsy miniature fort.

  “Come on, Remus,” said Burke. “You’ll work a month of Sundays to put up a stick fence like that. And the first time old Bessie rubs against it, it falls in.”

  Burke pointed back to the fence he was building. “Now look here,” he said. He bent down and grabbed a lower rail. Remus turned from the sapling fence to watch what Burke was doing. “You take a rail fence like this,” said the dark-haired astronaut, “it’s locked tight. Strong as a bull. It’ll last a lifetime. And, besides, it’s pleasing on the eye.”

  Remus eyed the rail fence suspiciously. He would not be convinced so quickly by Burke’s simple salesmanship. There were too many new ideas for him to grasp all at once. “Fences never last long,” he said. “They’re not supposed to.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, lieutenant,” said Burke, smiling.

  Remus took quick exception. “I’m not wrong,” he said fiercely. “I’m the boss. You can’t talk to me like that.”

  Burke realized that behind Remus’ childish pouting lurked the real danger of Burke’s being punished for the insolence of a slave to a master. He swallowed hard. “Sorry, Boss,” he said. “I just think this kind of a fence will grow on you.” He paused for a moment, then spoke up as if he had come up with another idea. “For ins
tance,” he said, “if you ever want to move it, say if your father wants it over there, say, you just take it apart . . . and put it together over there again.”

  “Is that right?” asked Remus, beginning to be intrigued. The younger son of Polar walked to Burke’s fence and kicked a lower rail. It was solid; it didn’t even move in its place. Remus tested it again. After that, he lifted the top rail from its position easily. What Burke had said about portability was true! Burke watched the youngster, himself interested in Remus’ reaction to this “modern” fence. The ape was very pleased, but he still had to assert his authority over it. Remus backed away from the fence. “You could just take it down and put it up somewhere else?” he asked.

  “Would I lie to you?” asked Burke.

  Remus thought for a moment. “I’ve decided,” he said finally. “It’s a good job.”

  Burke smiled. “Thank you, Boss,” he said. The apes were simple enough, and the astronauts’ sophistication gave the humans an intangible advantage. Still, Burke realized with a sigh, that sophistication and its alleged advantage often came in conflict with the apes’ crazy, strongly defended beliefs.

  Remus ended the moment’s respite. “Get back at it,” he ordered.

  Burke started wearily back for the pile of rails, with the young ape tagging along after him. The human picked up a rail from the pile; Remus disdained to help. “Who taught you to build a fence like that?” asked Remus.

  Burke paused for a few seconds. He decided to take two rails at once, to hasten the end of the job. He grunted with the effort. “Abraham Lincoln,” he said.

  Remus considered this answer; the name was definitely unapelike. “I’d like to meet this Abraham Lincoln,” he said reflectively.

  Burke’s face was streaked with sweat. His expression showed the strain of his load. His eyes turned heavenward. “So would I, Massa,” he said wistfully. “So would I.”

  Not a great distance away was the central city of the apes. Around it, the farming communities were arranged like satellite rings of subservient humans and indentured apes. In the city, the more fortunate and independent apes went about their daily affairs. Orangutans, the rulers of the ape world, oversaw the legal and executive administrations. Chimpanzees, the intellectuals, performed as doctors, teachers, and philosophers. The gorillas, weakest according to intellectual standards, but the strongest in physical strength, lived only for the clash of battle and conflict.