“Alma, listen to me!”

“I don’t want to! You’ll only try to confuse me! You’ll tell me things I don’t want to hear about! I don’t want to hear your facts! Kolp told me what to do, and I’m going to do it.” She stopped against the cool metal of the tall, silvery bomb.

Méndez spoke quietly, calmly. “Alma, come away from there. Let’s leave here, now. Just listen to one thing, listen to me. If you really do want to destroy the apes, you can destroy them anytime. This missile will wait. So can you. Just wait a few days, a week even. Give Kolp a chance to come back. Give yourself a chance to think about it. Make sure it is the right thing to do.”

“I have thought about it!” Her eyes blazed. “It is the right thing to do! Kolp told me!”

Méndez took another step toward her.

She took a step backward, moving around the missile. Suddenly she froze. “Oh, no . . .” she whispered.

“What is it?” Méndez came around the bomb to look. She let him; she made no effort to move away. Instead, she pointed at the dull black letters painted on its side: “ALPHA-OMEGA NUCLEAR DEVICE.”

“So that’s what the signal meant,” she gasped. “He never told me.”

“The final weapon,” said Méndez. “This is it, the final weapon. The last bomb!”

“He never told me.” Alma echoed.

“If he couldn’t win, he was going to let the whole world lose,” said Méndez. “He was . . . he was mad!”

“Oh, no,” moaned Alma. “Not, not . . . not . . . mad. Please, not mad!” She covered her eyes, sobbing.

Gently, Méndez pried her hands away. “Face it, Alma.”

“No, no, no, not mad. Not mad.” She looked up at him, eyes wet. “I’m not mad. Please. I’m not mad. I just didn’t know. I didn’t know, that’s all. Please don’t let them hurt me.”

“Alma, you know what this is, don’t you?”

She nodded. Slowly.

“Tell me.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Say it!”

“Nooo!” she moaned.

He slapped her. Hard.

“It’s the Alpha-Omega bomb. It can destroy not only the apes’ city but the entire Earth.” Suddenly, she was babbling. Almost hysterically. “Activate it and we become nothing. Leave it and its very presence will insure that at least we remain something—and may become something better.” She repeated everything she had ever heard about the device. “Mankind must never, never detonate the bomb. Never!”

“Alma,” Méndez stopped her. He held her by the shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. “You are not mad. Do you understand me? You are not mad.”

“Not mad,” she repeated.

Méndez realized then that they were not alone. A small crowd of curious men and women had entered the silo.

He turned to them. “Listen to me. We have been reborn today. This missile, this device, is a symbol of our rebirth. We must venerate it as a responsibility, a responsibility that our ancestors entrusted us with. We were given that responsibility because we are human. Because we are human, we are beautiful, we are good.”

“We are beautiful,” the crowd echoed. “We are good.”

His face was scarred, his skin ravaged by radiation, but his eyes glowed with a holy mission. Méndez raised his hands and proclaimed, “We are men! We are human!”

And again the crowd echoed him.

Only Alma was silent. Her gaze kept straying back to the bomb. But whatever she was thinking about remained unspoken.

TEN

Ape City was a shambles. Trees were scorched and toppled, some still burning. The sky was clouded by black smoke from the fires. And there were too many bodies. The chimpanzees were beginning to clear them up. But there were too many bodies. Caesar’s chest ached at the sight of it.

He strode slowly up the long street, Virgil beside him. He was heading for the horse corrals. As he came into sight, the humans there began to rouse. They recognized him and began to cheer and call his name.

At the sound, other apes, chimpanzees and orangutans especially, began to come out of their tree houses or look up from their work. They began to cheer Caesar, too.

Caesar didn’t acknowledge their accolade. He didn’t wave, didn’t smile, just kept walking toward the corral. His face was grim. His body ached, and his arms and legs were sore. He was tired and numb and still shocked at the carnage he had participated in, even encouraged. He had thought—no, prayed—that he had fought his last battle nine years before.

Behind him, the cheering grew louder. He ignored it until he heard the sound of galloping hooves thundering up at his back. The gorilla cavalry was returning.

Caesar didn’t bother to look around. He hurt all over. He didn’t want to hurt any more. He walked the last few steps to the corral and stopped. The humans inside looked at him expectantly. He started to move, then realized he just didn’t have the strength. “Virgil,” he said. “Open the corral. Let them go. Let them all go.” And then he turned to look at the approaching gorillas.

Virgil started to undo the bolt, but General Aldo came pounding up on his horse, shouting. He jerked the animal viciously to a halt, spraying Caesar and Virgil with dirt and rocks; the animal reared once and whinnied in protest, but the gorilla ignored it. He dismounted angrily. “No!” he growled at Caesar and Virgil. He pointed at the humans. “They stay in corral!”

The two apes looked at him.

Aldo thumped his chest. “Aldo will say what to do now!”

Caesar shook his head. “These people did nothing. They can go free.”

Aldo sneered. He looked Caesar over as if he were no longer worth arguing with. “I am General Aldo,” he said calmly. “I give orders.” His expression changed slowly. “You like humans? You want them not in corral? Okay, good—I fix.” He turned to his gorillas, his elite troops who had ridden with him across the desert. They were covered with dust and blood, laughing in their murderous glory. “Kill them!” barked General Aldo. “Kill them all! Kill the humans!”

The gorillas raised their guns to fire into the corral. The humans, terrified, backed away, cringing, some of them moaning with fear.

Caesar stiffened in outrage. Then he seemed to grow in stature. The gorillas stared at him, waiting to see what he would do. Despite his wounds, his numbness, and his shock, he managed to stand tall. He hobbled over to stand in front of the gate, between the humans and the gorillas’ guns. Something about his manner made the two gorillas guarding the gate edge away; they moved to stand with their fellows.

Caesar spoke slowly, and when he did, his voice betrayed his exhaustion. But his words were firm. “There will be no more killing, Aldo. Put down your guns. Take them back to the armory. The war is over.”

Aldo’s anger rose. How dare Caesar speak to General Aldo this way? But he controlled himself. Even his most loyal gorillas were startled by this sudden face-to-face confrontation and might hesitate to shoot Caesar. But Caesar was only a puny little chimp, hardly bigger than Cornelius. Aldo was stronger. Aldo would win. He was general of all the gorillas, and he was in charge now. His chest swelled as he declared, “No! We keep guns now. Move! Or we kill you!”

Caesar shook his head. Beside him stood Virgil. And now Lisa. And Doctor. The four faced the gorillas. A crowd of chimps and orangutans watched, shocked and horrified.

Virgil spoke for Caesar. “Ape shall never kill ape . . .” It didn’t really need to be said, but the next part did: “. . . let alone an ape child!”

Aldo’s eyes narrowed. He sneered. He raised his hand as if to give the order to fire, but behind him the faces of his gorillas showed that the meaning was beginning to sink in. Ape shall never kill ape! Holy words! Yet here they were with their guns pointed at Caesar and Virgil and Lisa!