“Very well. Young female. What is your name?”

“Zira.”

“I see. One might as well speak to a parrot. Except that a parrot would answer something else. Polly, perhaps.” Hartley laughed, and the tension broke slightly. Others laughed.

“Polly?” Zira demanded.

There was another outburst of laughter. “Well,” Dr. Hartley said. “The mimic power is very well developed, Dr. Dixon. I assume they have a vocabulary of their own, or you wouldn’t have called it speech. Very well developed mimicry. Unique in an ape. Does the other one talk as well?”

Cornelius stood. “Only when she lets me,” he said carefully.

Zira laughed and reached for Cornelius’s hand.

The audience began to applaud. Dr. Hartley sank to his seat, where he sat and stared evilly at Lewis Dixon. I’ve made no friend in him, Lewis thought. Too bad, but I don’t see how it could have been avoided. I tried to warn him. He looked up to see Dr. Hasslein staring at the chimpanzees.

He knows, Lewis thought. Cornelius’s answer shows everything in one line. Urbane, witty, responsive to a question not directed to him, humor; whatever intelligence is, if you’ve got that much moxy, you’ve got intelligence. Hasslein looks as if he’s swallowed a frog and now has to have at a big spider. What’s so horrible about ape intelligence to him?

Congressman Boyd stood. “Dr. Dixon, what is the male’s name, please.”

“Cornelius. Cornelius, this is Congressman Jason Boyd, of the House Science and Astronautics Committee.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Congressman Boyd,” Cornelius said. “I would offer to shake hands, but the chain is not long enough.”

There was laughter in the room. Nervous laughter. “Yes,” Boyd said. He rubbed his balding, coal black forehead. “May I say that I apologize for the chains? Dr. Dixon, somehow the sight of chained intelligent creatures disturbs me. It brings memories that perhaps you don’t share, nor do I, directly, but—”

“They weren’t my idea, Congressman,” Lewis said.

“Or mine,” Cornelius added. Everyone laughed. “But we understand. Where we come from, apes talk and humans are dumb animals. We shouldn’t care to face such creatures unless they were restrained, and we can hardly blame you for having the same prejudices.”

“Thank you,” Boyd said. “Mister Cornelius, what is your relationship with Zira?”

Zira answered before Cornelius could speak. “He is my lawfully wedded spouse.”

“Hmm.” Heads turned toward Cardinal MacPherson. The elderly Jesuit started. “Please excuse me.”

“Do you find the concept of marriage among apes amusing?” Boyd demanded.

MacPherson chuckled. “Not amusing, Congressman. Startling, perhaps. Intriguing. After all, there are varying degrees of matrimony, at least varying degrees of recognition of the state. I wonder which concept she means—but later, later. Please continue, Mister Boyd.”

Boyd obviously would like to start a fight with the Cardinal, Lewis thought. Wonder why? Maybe the Catholics aren’t too popular in Boyd’s district. Wouldn’t be, now that I think of it. They’re mostly Baptists there. But that’s no call to—

“Mister Cornelius,” Boyd was saying. “Do you or your, uh, wife speak any language other than English?”

Cornelius frowned. “What is English?” he asked. The audience murmured comments Lewis didn’t hear, and Victor Hasslein frantically scribbled notes. “I speak the language taught me by my father and mother,” Cornelius continued. “They were taught it by their fathers and mothers. This has been the language of my ancestors for at least two thousand years. As to its origins—I don’t know. I am surprised to find that you speak it. Are there other human languages?”

“Several,” Boyd said drily.

“Now I am curious,” Cardinal MacPherson said. “And surely you have curiosity?”

Cornelius nodded. Zira looked at the aged clergyman with interest.

“Did you never wonder where your language came from?” the Cardinal asked. “I, for one, am very curious as to how a single language, English, became universal among your species.”

“Not merely our species, sir,” Cornelius said. “Gorillas and orangutans also speak our language. In fact, the gorillas and orangutans in my community believe—believed—that God created apes in His own image, and that our language was given us by Him.”

The Cardinal is a bit shook by that, Lewis thought. Cagey old bird. Doesn’t show much. But that ought to have got to him. Hasslein’s still making notes. He seemed awfully interested in that hesitation of Cornelius’s. It won’t take him long to figure out where/when they’re from, I suspect.

“Of course, that’s all nonsense, dear,” Zira said firmly.

“I’d expect the Cardinal to second that thought,” Congressman Boyd said. He looked puzzled as he examined the apes.

“I expect you to leave the theology of the Church to the Church’s theologians,” MacPherson snapped. He turned to the apes. “I would keep that opinion on a tight rein, were I you, Cornelius. There are some Fundamentalists who will find it far more upsetting than I will—”

Zira wasn’t finished. “Chimpanzees are intellectuals,” she said loudly. “And as an intellectual, Cornelius, you know damned well that the gorillas are a bunch of militaristic nincompoops and the orangutans a gaggle of blinkered, pseudoscientific idea-infatuated geese. As to humans, I’ve dissec . . .” she caught herself abruptly. “Excuse me. I have examined thousands of humans and until now I have discovered only two who could talk in my whole life. God knows who taught them.”

“I expect He does,” Cardinal MacPherson said. “Who were the two humans you knew who could talk? And precisely where is this place, where apes speak, gorillas make war, orangutans dream ineffectually, chimpanzees are intellectuals, and humans cannot speak at all?”

“That is a very good question, Your Eminence,” Victor Hasslein seconded. “I should like very much to hear the answer.”

“We aren’t sure,” Cornelius said.

“But at that place, it is as His Eminence put it in his excellent summation? Apes speak and humans do not?” Hasslein insisted.

“Yes,” Zira said.

“But you do not know where this place is,” Hasslein continued. The room was very quiet now. Lewis watched, fascinated, reminded of a serpent stalking a small bird.

“I’m not sure,” Cornelius said.

“Dr. Milo was sure,” Zira said. A large tear formed in each eye and she wiped them, furtively.

“Dr. Milo was a genius far in advance of his time,” Cornelius said. He stood and went to place an arm across Zira’s shoulder, then faced the Commission. “We did not enjoy a mechanically dominated civilization such as yours,” he said. “We did not have the energy sources, for one difference. Certainly there was nothing resembling space flight. Yet, when that spacecraft first landed intact on our seacoast, Dr. Milo was able to salvage it, and through study, repair it. In the end he half understood it.”

“Half,” one of the commissioners said. “Was ‘half enough?”

“It was.” Cornelius looked up in anger. His voice hardened. “Enough for us to escape when war became inevitable. Enough to repair the spacecraft and adapt the survival equipment. Enough for us to survive to land here, where he was murdered in your zoo, and enough for us to be standing here where we can be insulted by you. Quite enough, I think.”

“Please accept our apologies,” Cardinal MacPherson said quickly. “We did not intend to insult you. I wonder if you can understand our surprise, though?”

“I think so,” Cornelius said. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

“I add my apologies,” Hasslein said softly. “But please, Cornelius, where did you come from? Did none of you know? Not even Dr. Milo?”

“He knew,” Cornelius said. “He believed we came from—from your future.”

There was silence. The commissioners stared at each other. Then the audience became restive. There were murmurs and comments, and the chairman pounded for order. Eventually there was quiet again. Dr. Hartley looked at Cornelius and said, “That does not make sense, sir.”