state security policemen riding conventionally powered cycles. Behind Breck’s vehicle, a second, less ostentatious limousine followed.
Fender flashers rotating, sirens screaming, the braking cycles announced the arrival of an important personage. The pennants on Breck’s limousine came to rest as the airjets shut off. The gleaming vehicle settled to the ground on its chassis cushion. The policemen parked their cycles in three rows of two each, deployed quickly.
Two of the officers stood guard at the admission booth in the center of the semicircular pillared gallery that backed up the arena. The other four disappeared down steps into the arena proper, to clear the governor’s way.
Jason Breck had only decided during luncheon to attend this particular afternoon auction. A secretarial call had prepared his usual place. He frequently dropped in on the auctions, both to observe the quality of the animals being turned out by Ape Management, and for more personal reasons. He made a fair profit from speculative buys and sells; short-term ownership of particularly good specimens.
Immaculately dressed, the governor climbed out as his chauffeur opened the door. His hair was ruffled by the crisp afternoon breeze. The national, state, and city flags, as well as Breck’s own personal ensign of office, snapped on gleaming poles above the gallery. The sky was deep blue, the surrounding exurban countryside a pleasant green.
Breck could not precisely say why he had made up his mind, on the spur of the moment, to visit the auction—perhaps to escape a variety of unpleasant situations in his office at Civic Center.
Kolp had stopped in, haggard. He’d reported that, after days of interrogation—twice interrupted when Armando had to be rushed to the infirmary for injections to repair the ravages of the questioning—the circus owner still persisted in telling his original story. Kolp and Hoskyns were now asking for the governor’s signed permission to employ the Authenticator.
Signed permission indeed! The pretense of civil liberties was a farce, but Kolp and Hoskyns were shrewd enough not to use the device without higher approval.
Breck had dodged the issue. Although widely used by police departments, the Authenticator was, in the view of the forty jurists who sat on the Most Supreme Court in Washington, an instrument of coercion and, therefore, illegal except in matters of national security.
It would be Breck’s decision. The situation didn’t qualify; and yet, he had a deep-seated worry that perhaps, in a peculiar way, it did . . .
Señor Armando’s ape was presumably still at large, unless it had been killed by accident in the city. That probably was too much to hope for, Breck thought in his mood of pessimism. Then there was MacDonald’s curious, unsettling report . . .
That particular problem came back into focus as one of Breck’s young, hard-eyed administrative assistants thrust out a thick binder. “I’m anxious to have you review the latest I.Q. profile on the metro ape sample given the standard tests last week.”
“Don’t hand me big books unless there’s something essential in them.”
The assistant licked his lips, recovered quickly from the rebuff: “I believe there is, sir. The profile of the sample, which is statistically reliable, indicates that the I.Q. of the ape population has risen three point four in the last two-month interval.”
“Let Mr. MacDonald read that,” Breck snapped. “He thinks I’m imagining things about our simian friends. Who, if that report is correct, are not only becoming smarter, but generally more independent. Despite conditioning.”
Breck let MacDonald have the full force of his challenging stare. As always, he was struck by the steadiness of the black man’s gaze. Damn! If he weren’t so good, Breck would demote him instantly. As it was, he simply tolerated him—with difficulty.
With a smug grin, the assistant with the book started to hand the report to
Fender flashers rotating, sirens screaming, the braking cycles announced the arrival of an important personage. The pennants on Breck’s limousine came to rest as the airjets shut off. The gleaming vehicle settled to the ground on its chassis cushion. The policemen parked their cycles in three rows of two each, deployed quickly.
Two of the officers stood guard at the admission booth in the center of the semicircular pillared gallery that backed up the arena. The other four disappeared down steps into the arena proper, to clear the governor’s way.
Jason Breck had only decided during luncheon to attend this particular afternoon auction. A secretarial call had prepared his usual place. He frequently dropped in on the auctions, both to observe the quality of the animals being turned out by Ape Management, and for more personal reasons. He made a fair profit from speculative buys and sells; short-term ownership of particularly good specimens.
Immaculately dressed, the governor climbed out as his chauffeur opened the door. His hair was ruffled by the crisp afternoon breeze. The national, state, and city flags, as well as Breck’s own personal ensign of office, snapped on gleaming poles above the gallery. The sky was deep blue, the surrounding exurban countryside a pleasant green.
Breck could not precisely say why he had made up his mind, on the spur of the moment, to visit the auction—perhaps to escape a variety of unpleasant situations in his office at Civic Center.
Kolp had stopped in, haggard. He’d reported that, after days of interrogation—twice interrupted when Armando had to be rushed to the infirmary for injections to repair the ravages of the questioning—the circus owner still persisted in telling his original story. Kolp and Hoskyns were now asking for the governor’s signed permission to employ the Authenticator.
Signed permission indeed! The pretense of civil liberties was a farce, but Kolp and Hoskyns were shrewd enough not to use the device without higher approval.
Breck had dodged the issue. Although widely used by police departments, the Authenticator was, in the view of the forty jurists who sat on the Most Supreme Court in Washington, an instrument of coercion and, therefore, illegal except in matters of national security.
It would be Breck’s decision. The situation didn’t qualify; and yet, he had a deep-seated worry that perhaps, in a peculiar way, it did . . .
Señor Armando’s ape was presumably still at large, unless it had been killed by accident in the city. That probably was too much to hope for, Breck thought in his mood of pessimism. Then there was MacDonald’s curious, unsettling report . . .
That particular problem came back into focus as one of Breck’s young, hard-eyed administrative assistants thrust out a thick binder. “I’m anxious to have you review the latest I.Q. profile on the metro ape sample given the standard tests last week.”
“Don’t hand me big books unless there’s something essential in them.”
The assistant licked his lips, recovered quickly from the rebuff: “I believe there is, sir. The profile of the sample, which is statistically reliable, indicates that the I.Q. of the ape population has risen three point four in the last two-month interval.”
“Let Mr. MacDonald read that,” Breck snapped. “He thinks I’m imagining things about our simian friends. Who, if that report is correct, are not only becoming smarter, but generally more independent. Despite conditioning.”
Breck let MacDonald have the full force of his challenging stare. As always, he was struck by the steadiness of the black man’s gaze. Damn! If he weren’t so good, Breck would demote him instantly. As it was, he simply tolerated him—with difficulty.
With a smug grin, the assistant with the book started to hand the report to
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