This is no longer a senseless hypothesis—quite the contrary. No sooner do I formulate it than I feel the excitement produced by picking up the right scent among so many false ones. It is on this track, I know, that the solution to the irritating simian mystery is to be found, I realize my subconscious has always been dreaming of some explanation of this sort.
I am in the aircraft taking me back to the capital, accompanied by Cornelius’ secretary, a rather talkative chimpanzee. I don’t feel like chatting with him. I always tend to meditate when I’m in an airplane. I shall find no better opportunity than this voyage to put my thoughts in order.
Suppose, then, the existence in the distant past of a civilization on the planet Soror similar to our own. Is it possible that creatures devoid of intelligence could have perpetuated it by a simple process of imitation? The answer to this question seems risky, but after thinking it over, a host of arguments occur to me that gradually lessen its aspect of unreasonableness. That perfected machines may one day succeed us is, I remember, an extremely commonplace notion on Earth. It prevails not only among poets and romantics but in all classes of society. Perhaps it is because it is so widespread, born spontaneously in popular imagination, that it irritates scientific minds. Perhaps it is also for this very reason that it contains a germ of truth. Only a germ: Machines will always be machines; the most perfected robot, always a robot. But what of living creatures possessing a certain degree of intelligence, like apes? And apes, precisely, are endowed with a keen sense of imitation. . . .
I close my eyes. I let myself be lulled by the drone of the engines. I feel the need to commune with myself in order to justify my position.
What is it that characterizes a civilization? Is it the exceptional genius? No, it is everyday life. . . . Hmm! Let us give intelligence its due. Let us concede that it is principally the arts, and first and foremost, literature. Is the latter really beyond the reach of our higher apes, if it is admitted-that they are capable of stringing words together? Of what is our literature made? Masterpieces? Again, no. But once an original book has been written—and no more than one or two appear in a century—men of letters imitate it, in other words, they copy it so that hundreds of thousands of books are published on exactly the same theme, with slightly different titles and modified phraseology. This should be able to be achieved by apes, who are essentially imitators, provided, of course, that they are able to make use of language.
In fact, language represents the only valid objection. But wait a moment! It is not essential that apes should understand what they are copying in order to produce a hundred thousand volumes from a single original. It is clearly no more necessary for them than it is for us. Like us, they merely need to be able to repeat sentences after having heard them. All the rest of the literary process is purely mechanical. It is at this point that the opinion of certain learned biologists assumes its full value: There is nothing in the anatomy of the ape, they maintain, that precludes the use of speech—nothing, that is, except the necessary urge. It is not difficult to conceive that this urge came to him one day as a result of some sudden mutation.
The perpetuation of a literature like ours by talking apes does not, therefore, conflict with common sense in any way. Subsequently, perhaps, some apes of letters raised themselves a step or two higher on the intellectual ladder. As my learned friend Cornelius said, mind embodies itself in gesture—in this case, in the mechanism of speech—and a few original ideas were able to appear in the new simian world at the rate of one every century—as in our own case.
Cheerfully pursuing this train of thought, I soon succeeded in convincing myself that well-trained animals might well have been able to produce the paintings and sculptures I had admired in the museums of the capital and, in general, become expert in all the human arts, including the art of cinematography.
Having first considered the highest manifestations of intelligence, it was only too easy to extend my thesis to other areas. That of industry quickly succumbed to my analysis. It seemed absolutely clear that industry did not require the presence of a rational being to maintain itself. Basically, industry consisted of manual laborers, always performing the selfsame tasks, who could easily be replaced by apes; and, at a higher level, of executives whose function was to draft certain reports and pronounce certain words under given circumstances. All this was a question of conditioned reflexes. At the still higher level of administration, it seemed even easier to concede the quality of aping. To continue our system, the gorillas would merely have to imitate certain attitudes and deliver a few harangues, all based on the same model.
I thus came to view the most diverse activities of our Earth with a new eye and to imagine them performed by apes. I indulged with a certain satisfaction in this game, which demanded no intellectual effort. I called to mind a number of political meetings I had attended as a journalist. I remembered the stock remarks made by the personalities I had had to interview. I recalled with particular intensity a celebrated trial I had followed several years before.
The defense counsel was one of the masters of his profession. Why did he appear to me now in the guise of a proud gorilla, as did also the advocate general, another celebrity? Why did I compare their gestures and actions to conditioned reflexes resulting from intensive training? Why did the president of the tribunal remind me of a solemn orangutan reciting sentences learned by heart, the utterance of which was automatic and likewise inspired by some statement from a witness or some murmur in the crowd?
I thus spent the last part of the journey obsessed by comparisons that seemed to me significant. When I came to the world of finance and business, my final mental picture was a thoroughly simian vision, a recent recollection of the planet Soror. It was during a visit to the stock exchange, where my friend Cornelius had insisted on bringing me, for it was one of the curiosities of the capital. This is what I saw—a picture I recalled with extraordinary vividness during the last minutes of my flight.
The stock exchange was a large building, outwardly imbued with a strange atmosphere created by a vague buzz of voices that grew progressively louder as one approached, until it was a deafening roar. We went inside and were forthwith caught up in the turmoil. I wedged myself against a pillar. I was accustomed to individual apes but was always somewhat stupefied when surrounded by a compact mob, as now. I found the sight even more incongruous than that of the learned assembly during the famous congress. Imagine a hall of vast proportions crammed full of apes, screaming, gesticulating, and running hither and thither in a completely disorganized manner, apes in hysteria, apes who not only rushed about and bumped into one another on the floor but who formed a swarming mass right up to the ceiling, which was at a giddy height from the ground. The place was equipped with ladders, trapezes, and ropes that they used constantly in order to move from one spot to another. They thus filled the entire volume of the building, which assumed the aspect of a cage specially designed for a grotesque exhibition of four-handed creatures.
The apes literally flew to and fro across this space, always catching hold of some piece of equipment just when I thought they were about to fall; all this in a hubbub of infernal exclamations, shouts, cries, and even sounds that recalled no civilized language. There were monkeys there who were barking— yes, barking for no apparent reason— swinging themselves from one end of the room to the other on long ropes.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” my friend Cornelius asked me proudly.
I readily admitted I had not. It needed all my previous acquaintance with the apes to convince me that these were rational creatures. No one in his right mind who watched this circus could escape the conclusion that he was witnessing the frolics of madmen or animals gone wild. Not a glimmer of intelligence could be seen in their eyes, and they ali looked alike. I could not tell one from another. All of them were dressed in the same way and wore the same mask, which was the mask of madness.
The most disturbing part of my present image was that contrary to
the phenomenon that shortly before had made me assign the form of gorillas or orangutans to the figure? in the earthly scene, I now saw the members of this insane-crowd in the guise of human beings. It was men I thus saw shrieking, barking, and swinging about on ropes to reach their destination as fast as possible. In excitement I recalled other aspects of this scene. I remembered that after looking on for some time, I had begun to notice certain details suggesting vaguely that this hubbub did nevertheless form part of a civilized system. An articulate word could occasionally be heard above the bestial shrieks. Perched on a scaffolding at a giddy height above us, a gorilla, without interrupting the hysterical gestures of his hands, would pick up a piece of chalk in his foot and write some probably significant figure on a blackboard. To this gorilla, too, I assigned human features.
I managed to rid myself of this hallucination only by coming back to my rough outline of a theory on the origins of the simian civilization, and in this remembrance of the world of finance I found fresh arguments to support it.
The aircraft touched down. I was back in the capital. Zira had come to meet me at the airport. From far off I saw her scarf pulled down over her ears, and the sight of it filled me with joy. When I eventually joined her after the customs formalities I had to restrain myself from flinging my arms around her.
CHAPTER THIRTY - ONE
I spent the month following my return in bed, suffering from an infection I had probably picked up on the site and which assumed the form of violent bouts of fever similar to malaria. I was not in pain, but my brain was on fire and I could not stop mulling over the elements of the fearful truth I had glimpsed. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that a human era had preceded the simian age on the planet Soror, and this conviction gave me a sort of intoxication.
On second thought, however, I am not sure if I ought to feel proud of this discovery or profoundly humiliated by it. My self-respect notes with satisfaction that apes have invented nothing, that they are mere imitators. My humiliation derives from the fact that a human civilization could have been so easily assimilated by apes.
How could this have happened? In my delirium I could not keep my mind off the problem. True, we have long known that our civilizations are mortal, but such a complete disappearance makes the senses reel. A sudden disaster? A cataclysm? Or else the slow decline of the one and the progressive ascent of the other? I am inclined to the latter hypothesis, and I find extremely significant indications of this evolution in the apes’ present-day condition and preoccupations.
The importance they attach to biological research, for instance—well, I am fully aware of its origin. In the old days many apes must have served as experimental subjects for men, as is the case in our own laboratories. These were the ones who first hoisted the flag, who were the pioneers of the revolution. They would naturally have begun by imitating the gestures and attitudes observed in their masters, and these masters were researchers, learned biologists, doctors, nurses, and warders. Hence this unusual imprint on most of their enterprises, which still persists today.
And what about the men all this time? Enough speculation about apes!
It is now two months since I visited my former companions in captivity, my fellow humans. Today I feel better. I have no more fever. Yesterday I told Zira—Zira has looked after me like a sister during my illness—I told her that I was planning to resume my work in her department. She did not seem very pleased but she raised no objection. It is time for me to pay my visit.
Here I am again in the room with the cages. A strange emotion makes me pause on the threshold. I now see these creatures in a new fight. It is with anguish that I wonder, before making up my mind to enter, if they will recognize me after my long absence. Well, they do recognize me. All their eyes are fixed on me, as they always used to be, and even with a sort of deference. Am I dreaming or do I really discern a new look in them, a look reserved for me and different from the glances they bestow on their ape warders? A gleam impossible to describe, but in which I fancy I see an awakened curiosity, an unusual emotion, shades of ancestral memories trying to emerge from bestiality, and perhaps ... an uncertain glimmer of hope.
This hope, I believe, I have myself unconsciously nourished for some time. Is it not the reason why I am overwhelmed by this feverish excitement? Is it not I, I, Ulysse Merou, the man whom destiny has brought to this planet to be the instrument of human regeneration?
Here, distinctly stated at last, is the hazy notion that has been haunting me for a month. The good Lord does not shoot dice, as a certain physicist once said. Nothing happens by mere chance in the cosmos. My voyage to the world of Betelgeuse was decreed by a superior consciousness. It is up to me to show myself worthy of the choice and to be the new savior of this human race in decline.
As before, I go slowly around the cages. I force myself not to rush over to Nova’s cage at once. Is the envoy of destiny entitled to favorites? I speak to each of my subjects. The moment has not yet come for them to talk. I do not mind. I have my entire lifetime in which to accomplish my mission.
I now approach my former cage with studied negligence. I look out of the corner of my eye, but I do not see Nova’s arms stretched through the bars, I do not hear the cries of joy with which she always used to greet me. A strange misgiving assails me. I cannot restrain myself. I dash forward. The cage is empty.
I summon one of the warders in an authoritative voice that makes the captives shiver. Zanam is the one who appears. He does not like receiving orders from me, but Zira has instructed him to put himself at my disposal.
“Where is Nova?”
He replies in a surly manner that he does not know. She was taken away one day without any reason being given. I repeat my question but in vain. At this moment, luckily, Zira turns up to carry out her tour of inspection. She sees me in front of the empty cage and realizes why I am so upset. She looks flustered and at once starts talking about something else.
“Cornelius has just come back. He wants to see you.”
At the moment I don’t give a damn about Cornelius or the chimpanzees or the gorillas or any other creature in heaven or in hell. I point at the cell with my ringer.
“Where’s Nova?”
“She’s ill,” says’Zira. “She’s been transferred to a special wing.”
She beckons to me and leads me aside, out of earshot of the warder.
“The administrator made me promise to keep it secret. But I feel you ought to know.”
“She’s ill?”
“Nothing serious; but it’s important enough to put the authorities on their toes. Nova is expecting.”
“She’s ...”
“I mean she’s pregnant,” the she-ape announces, observing me with a curious expression.
CHAPTER THIRTY - TWO
I am stupefied without yet fully realizing what this news implies. At first I am assailed by a mass of trivial details and above all tormented by the disquieting question: why was I not notified of this? Zira does not give me time to protest.
“I noticed two months ago, on my return from the trip. The gorillas had not seen a thing. I phoned Cornelius, who had a long conversation with the administrator. They agreed that it would be better to keep it secret. No one knows about it except them and me. She’s in an isolated cage and I’m looking after her personally.”
I regard this concealment as an act of treachery on Cornelius’ part and I can see that Zira is embarrassed. It looks to me as though some plot is being hatched in the background.
“Don’t worry. She is being well treated and there’s nothing she needs. I’m doing everything I can for her. No pregnancy of a female human has ever been so carefully watched over.”
Under her mocking gaze I lower my eyes like a schoolboy guilty of some misdemeanor. She makes an effort to assume an ironical tone, but I can see she is perturbed. True, I realize my physical intimacy with Nova has vexed her ever since she recognized my true nature, but there is more than vexation in her expression. It is
her affection for me that makes her anxious. These mysteries concerning Nova presage nothing good. I imagine she has not told me the whole truth: that the Grand Council is well aware of the situation and there have been discussions at a very high level.
“When is her confinement due?”
“In three or four months.”
The tragi-comic side of the situation overwhelms me suddenly. I am about to become a father in the system of Betelgeuse. I am going to have a child on the planet Soror by a woman for whom I feel a great physical attraction and sometimes even compassion but who has the mind of an animal. No other being in the cosmos has found himself involved in such an adventure. I feel like weeping and laughing at the same time.
“Zira, I want to see her!”
She gives a little pout of annoyance.
“I knew you would ask me that. I’ve already discussed it with Cornelius and I think he will agree to it. He’s waiting for you in his office.”
“Cornelius is a traitor!”
“You’ve no right to say that. He is divided between his passion for science and his duty as an ape. It is only natural that he should feel extremely apprehensive at this impending birth.”
My anguish increases as I follow her down the corridors of the institute. I can imagine the attitude of the learned apes and their fear of seeing a new race arise that— Good heavens! I now see exactly how the mission with which I have been entrusted can be accomplished.
Cornelius greets me in a friendly manner, but a permanent awkwardness has been created between us. At times he looks at me as though in terror. I make an effort not to broach the subject on my mind at once. I ask him about the voyage and the end of his stay among the ruins.
“Fascinating. I have a mass of irrefutable proof.”
His clever little eyes are sparkling. He cannot prevent himself from exulting over his success. Zira is right; he is torn between his love of science and his duty as an ape. At the moment it is the scientist speaking, the enthusiastic scientist for whom only the triumph of his theories counts.