And he was certainly right, Lewis Dixon thought. Zira was perpetually startled by this civilization—toothbrushes, which she thought a bit small to use as hairbrushes; high-heeled shoes, which she thought ridiculous. Sometimes, watching her, it was difficult for Lewis to remember that the apes weren’t primitive at all; not in the way he was tempted to think. Machinery wasn’t everything.

Future shock with a vengeance, Lewis thought. Add to it the knowledge that their world is destroyed and they can never go home. Realize that they are all alone here on Earth and always will be, that there will never be any others of their own kind; and the question is inevitable. Are these chimpanzees quite sane?

I certainly wouldn’t be, Dixon thought. The culture shock of this machine civilization would be enough to put me off my hinges. Or knowing I was alone and always would be. Any of it would be enough to drive almost any normal human stark staring mad—yet the apes don’t seem very upset at all. They’ve adjusted to tailors, automobiles, TV, telephones, refrigerators, and flush toilets, and they’re still at it. This should make a fascinating book when I have finished with the study.

Another press conference was about to begin. It was the tenth, or eleventh, for the chimpanzees; Lewis Dixon couldn’t remember which. The big, important publications had been dealt with, or wanted so much time for depth interviews that scheduling was difficult; now came the turn for the specialty magazines and papers. Lewis and Stevie waited in the living room of the suite until Cornelius led Zira out.

“Hey, you look nice,” Lewis said. The first time be had seen Zira in a high-necked maxi-skirt cocktail dress he had been unable to restrain himself, and his laughter had been embarrassing. The embarrassment hadn’t lasted long, though; when Zira modeled the clothes for Cornelius, her husband had found the whole thing even funnier than Dixon had.

Only Stephanie sympathized. Apparently women chimpanzees weren’t a lot different from human females when it came to clothing. Stevie hadn’t seen anything to laugh about at all.

“How many reporters do we have this time?” Zira asked.

“Not many. Two or three,” Lewis said. There was a knock at the door, and when he answered it, a room service waiter came in with a tray of glasses and a bottle of champagne.

“I didn’t order this,” Lewis said.

“Compliments of the house,” the waiter said. “I’ll put this second bottle in the refrigerator. The manager thought you might like some refreshments between press conferences.”

“Yes, we would, thank you.” Lewis took the tray and gave the waiter a tip. He poured for each and raised his glass. “Here’s to the most popular apes in the world.”

They all lifted their glasses and drank. “Hey, not so much. You sip champagne,” Lewis told Zira. “Don’t gulp it!”

“It’s very good,” Zira said. “What is it?”

Dixon shrugged. “Sort of—grape juice plus, I guess. Surely you have had wines?”

“Not this good,” Zira said. She took another big swallow of the champagne. “Excellent.”

Cornelius led Lewis Dixon to the other side of the ornate suite. “All chimpanzees have a tendency to drink too much alcohol. It seems to be inherited—we do not notice it particularly in orangutans and gorillas, although some gorillas are alcoholics.”

“Zira too?” Lewis asked.

Cornelius shrugged. “It is not a real problem. She does not actively seek wine. But, if it is around, she will drink it. So will I.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Lewis said. “We’ll let this glass be the last.”

“Certainly until after the press conference,” Cornelius answered. “You may bring the reporters in now.”

“Right. Stevie—they’re ready.”

“Right.” Stephanie went to open the door as Cornelius took his place on the couch. He sat at the opposite end from Zira. They looked at each other and grinned.

There were four reporters. One, the only girl, wore an enormous floppy-brimmed picture hat which set off her dark features perfectly. She smiled at the chimpanzees and took a seat. The other reporters found their places. Two had cameras and snapped away at the chimpanzees, and all seemed surprised to see Cornelius in a double-breasted suit with necktie and vest. Zira had worn long dresses on television before, but Cornelius had never been so sharply dressed in public.

“Miss Jeanna Robbins,” said Stephanie. “You’re with—?”

“Fur and Feather,” the reporter answered.

Zira frowned. “What kind of magazine is that?”

“Well—” the reporter seemed embarrassed. Finally she giggled. “It’s a pet magazine, Madame Zira.”

“Hm.” Zira smiled maliciously. “Do you think I’m a pet?”

“Why yes, I do, rather.”

They all laughed. Zira lifted her glass and drained it of the last of the wine.

“Madam Zira,” Jeanna Robbins asked, “what is your favorite fruit?”

Zira smacked her lips. “Grape.”

“Bill Cummings, Men’s Hunting and Outdoors,” one of the reporters said. “How do you find our women, Mister Cornelius?”

“Very human? Really, sir, we haven’t the same standards of beauty. The question makes no sense.”

“No, I don’t suppose it does. Do you ever hunt, Mister Cornelius?”

“No.” The chimpanzee looked rather sadly at them. “Some apes did, but I don’t think I want to tell you about it. It was mostly the gorillas, anyway, and we didn’t know many of them, at least not socially.”

“A caste society, then?” the third reporter asked. “I’m Joe Simpson, Ebony. Which was the lower caste, Mister Cornelius?” The black reporter spoke aggressively.

Cornelius shook his head. “None of them. The gorillas were—well, they were the army and much of the government was by gorillas, but with the advice of chimpanzees. The chimpanzees were the intellectual class. Not entirely. Orangutans were also teachers, but they are not very practical, Mister Simpson. They prefer to think and to dream.”

“Seems pretty racist to me,” Simpson said.

Cornelius shrugged. “The differences are observable. Quite real, Mister Simpson. Should we ignore them?”

Lewis cleared his throat. “Perhaps—had you finished, Miss Robbins?”

“No—Madame Zira, I understand you’ll address the Bay Area Women’s Club tomorrow. Do you have any idea of what you’re going to say? I know I won’t be able to get there, and perhaps these gentlemen won’t either.”

There was muttered agreement from the men, although Simpson still wasn’t happy.

Zira grinned. “My husband isn’t going to like it.”

“Oh, no,” Cornelius groaned. “Not that liberation speech again!”

“I’m sorry, but yes, dear.” She turned back to Jeanna Robbins. “In some ways your society is a great deal like ours. Three male reporters and one female—and you’re from a pet magazine! Everywhere I look, the best jobs go to the males. It was the same with us.”

“Really,” Jeanna said.

“Yes. I mean, a marriage bed is made for two, but every morning it’s the woman who has to make it.”

“That’s a good line,” Jeanna said. “I’ll quote you.”

“Not before tomorrow, please,” Zira said. “I have to make the speech first—”

“Oh, we won’t be out for weeks,” Jeanna replied. “You are a physician, aren’t you?”

“Sort of,” Zira said. “A psychiatrist. I worked mostly with, uh, animals.”

“You mean humans, don’t you?” Simpson demanded.

“Yes,” Zira answered.

“And they couldn’t talk. Black or white, they couldn’t talk. Just beasts, is that right?”

“Well—yes,” Zira said.

“There were no black humans that we ever saw,” Cornelius said. “Not where we lived, anyway.”

“And where was that?” Simpson demanded.

Cornelius shrugged. “From a study of the maps, I would say somewhere immediately south of the area you call New York.”

“Then what happened to all the people who lived there?” Jeanna Robbins asked.