The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 6

J. G. by Roger Price

Best way to eliminate the human error factor is to dispense with the human? This excerpt—the first five chapters —from a book described on the jacket as “a novel about The Way Things Are, as discovered in the adventures of an innocent Hero . . .” tries (like NASA) using an ape instead.

It is hardly necessary to state that Roger Price is a funny man. (This is “Droodles” Price, “Mad Libs” Price and TV-comic Price we are talking about.) It is well worth staling, however, that his novel is not only funny, but very good satire indeed.

J. G. weighed three hundred and fifty-four pounds; and, when he remembered not to walk round-shouldered, he was six feet one inch tall. He had large blue eyes, and he could see a caterpillar one hundred yards away and tell whether it was a boy caterpillar or a girl caterpillar. He could hear a leaf rustle at a distance of an eighth of a mile and tell whether it was a birch or a beech. And he had a Reflex-Reaction-Time of 9.6.

He also had a very small brain—being a primitive anthropoid, he had a cranial capacity of only five hundred cubic Centimeters—and a shy and modest disposition.

His whole name was J. Gorilla Gorilla Primate, which included his generic order, his species and a “J” for decorative purposes; but his family and friends and his beautiful wife, Lotus, called him J. G., and so shall we.

Until he met the Explorer, J. G. had never seen a human being. And until the Explorer met J. G., he had never seen a Gorilla like J. G.

In both physique and temperament, J. G. was unlike the two known types of Gorillas: the Plains Gorillas who lived in Darkestafrica at the foot of Mount Kallahili and were skittish and the Mountain Gorillas who lived right below Lake Kivu and were moody.

Many thousands of years ago, J. G.’s tribe had become annoyed by the vulgarity of their neighbors—principally the Plains Gorillas and Pithecanthropus Erectus—and had moved higher and higher up Mount Kallahili in search of Peace and Quiet.

They migrated upwards past Lake Kivu, past the impassable cliffs east of Lake Kivu, and eventually settled down only a few hundred yards below the point where the snows never melt.

Centuries of living in the cold, thin, mountain air of a land where food was scarce and the only shelter was to be found in caves had effected certain changes in their appearance. For one thing, they were covered with a fashionable silver-colored hair, except for their chests and faces, which were a healthy pink. And for another, their noses had evolved small, but noticeable, bridges.

Because of the scarcity of trees in that region, they had given up climbing and swinging from branches and, as a result, their arms were shorter and their legs longer and straighter than less isolated members of their species. And, because of their isolation, they were neither skittish nor moody.

Otherwise they were like other gorillas, in that their small brains were not complicated enough to deal with advanced intellectual concepts such as Purpose, Competition and Improvement. When they thought, it was only in the most simple and logical terms.

Their limited mental equipment had naturally reduced the Silver Gorillas to a savage existence. None of them ever did, or had ever done, anything without a Reason. They spent most of their time eating, sleeping and scratching. But only when they were hungry, sleepy or itchy.

Civil authority was non-existent; they practiced the atavistic institution of monogamy and their language was abysmally brutalized. They used no adverbs; their verbs did not agree in number; and there was no rule against splitting infinitives. Their vocabulary did not even contain words such as: “unsuitable,” “traffic,” “liar,” “hurry,” “psychosomatic,” “poverty,” or “work.” They were, to put it bluntly, inhuman.

And, until the events which I am about to relate occurred, J. G. was no exception.

These events began one day in the middle of supper— which, in J. G.’s case, lasted from lunch until bedtime. He was shaking the snow from a lilac bush on the north slope of the plateau, when the sun was suddenly obscured by a huge, black cloud that seemed to be rushing straight toward Mount Kallahili from the east. Within a matter of minutes, the cloud had enveloped the top of the mountain in the wildest, most formidable storm J. G. had ever seen.

Gathering up an armful of lilac branches and some conchi nuts, he trotted back to the cave that he shared with his beautiful wife, Lotus, to wait for the storm to pass. When he arrived, she was not there; so he sat down and began to eat the lilac branches, saving the tenderest leaves and ends for Lotus.

He finished eating and there was still no sign of Lotus. Outside, lightning flashed in the blackness, followed by great rolls of thunder; farther down the slope J. G. could hear, even over the terrible roaring of the wind, the splintering and crash of falling trees. He plunged into the storm and went from cave to cave looking for his wife.

She was in none of them; but his friend, Zum, remembered that right after lunch she had gone down the north slope of the mountain toward Lake Kivu looking for cypress resin. J. G. sighed. Lotus had always had a sweet tooth. He thanked Zum and headed down the mountain in search of his splendid wife.

The next morning the storm had passed on, and J. G. had found no trace of Lotus. He came back to the plateau and found that she had not returned. He sighed again as he realized he would have to keep on looking for Lotus; because it was the only logical thing to do. He missed her.

He methodically covered every foot of the mountain down to the lake. This was not as difficult as it might seem; because, even on a hillside covered with obstructions, J. G. could move at a speed of twenty-five miles per hour without exerting himself.

When he had searched above the lake, he searched the mountain between the lake and the forests. Then he searched through the forests and crossed the river and searched the grass lands beyond the river and the dry plains beyond the grass lands. Finally he came to the end of the dry plains and faced the ocean. As he wandered along the beach, he came-upon a sign—footprints in the sand: Lad]/ Gorilla footprints, Lotus’s footprints.

J. G. raced along the beach, following the footprints southward until they disappeared in the surf. He went several miles down the beach but the footprints did not reappear. He came back to the point where they vanished and sat down.

He wondered if Lotus could have wandered into the water and drowned; but he doubted it, as she was an excellent swimmer. He wondered what to do next. He missed Lotus very much. He also missed his supper. And his breakfast. And lunch.

For the first time in his life, J. G. was unhappy. It required great concentration on his part, because it isn’t easy to be unhappy when you have such a tiny brain.

Just then the Explorer came out of a clump of cane onto the beach, accompanied by four Sailors. When they saw J. G., they all took several steps backwards rapidly. Then they stopped; and the Explorer, after a long pause, whistled softly to himself and took several steps forward.

J. G. nodded politely and looked away. He assumed the Explorer and his friends were suffering from malnutrition and eczema, and he didn’t want to embarrass them by staring.

The Explorer, seemingly against the wishes of his companions, who began backing farther away, advanced cautiously toward J. G. and offered him a banana. J. G. took it and thanked him.

The Explorer then made sounds and gestures which indicated that he wanted J. G. to accompany him, and J. G. did. He went, first, because it would have been impolite not to; and, second, because to find Lotus he had to go some place; and, third, because the Explorer kept giving him bananas.

After they had walked north on the beach for a half a mile, they came to an inlet where the Explorer’s ship was anchored. J. G., who now considered the Explorer an old and trusted friend, allowed himself to be rowed out and taken on board and so, unwittingly, began his strange adventure.

Although his curiosity was aroused, J. G. did not have time to properly examine the ship or its fittings. The Explorer insisted on showing him, at once, to a small cabin below decks. The cabin had an iron-barred door and no window. When he had bolted the door, the Explorer stepped back, exhaled loudly and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Then he shouted several times down the passageway.

J. G. had already realized that the Explorer and his companions used a language that was different from his own. He had tried to communicate with them, but they neither answered nor, in fact, seemed to notice his questions; so, when a very Old Man finally came limping down the passageway, J. G. listened attentively to the loud, angry things the Explorer said to the Old Man and made a note of the exact words he used. A retentive and accurate memory is one of the few advantages of having a small and unconvoluted brain.

Later the Old Man returned alone with some bananas and plantain leaves and dropped them through the bars into J. G.’s cabin.

J. G. addressed the Old Man, using the exact words he had heard the Explorer use.

The Old Man dropped the box he was carrying and glared at J. G. “The same to you!” he shouted.

J. G. said, “The same to you!”

“Oh yeh?” said the Old Man.

“Oh yeh?” said J. G.

“Humphf!” said the Old Man.

“Humphf!” said J. G.

The Old Man glared at him again and started to leave. Then he turned and scratched his head. “God amighty,” he said. “A talkin’ ape.”

“God amighty,” J. G. said. “A talkin’ ape.”

The Old Man studied him, open-mouthed, for a while and then cleared his throat and said, “Hello.”

J. G. cleared his throat and said. “Hello.”

The Old Man then carefully pointed to J. G. and said, “You.”

J. G. pointed himself and said, “You.”

“No, no,” the Old Man said, shaking his head. He pointed to himself and said, “Me,” and to J. G. again and said, “You.”

J. G. understood. He pointed to himself and said, “Me,” and to the Old Man and said, “You.”

The Old Man broke into a long cackling laugh. He taught J. G. a few more words and then limped back on deck. From then on, whenever he brought J. G. food, he taught him more words.

J. G. saw immediately that the construction and grammar of this new language were similar to that used by the Silver Gorillas. By the end of the week, he had enough vocabulary to carry on limited conversations with the Old Man; and when, a few days later, the Explorer came to his cabin, he was able to thank him for his kindness and assistance in helping him in his search for his beautiful wife, Lotus.

When the Explorer discovered that J. G. could speak, he was extraordinarily pleased. After conversing with him for a half an hour, he announced that he was going to take an interest in J. G.’s education. He assured J. G. that, if he applied himself, the two of them could “clean up.”

During the ensuing days, he showed J. G. how to eat with a knife and fork; taught him to say “Yes sir” and “No sir”; lent him his dictionary; and allowed him to look through his telescope. He also taught him to play Pittsburgh Rummy.

The Explorer seemed to get huge enjoyment out of the games that they played together every evening.

“In spite of the fact that you’re an ugly, murderous beast, I must admit you’re good company,” he would say, dealing himself a card from the bottom of the pack. “I knock with two.”

The Explorer won every game because he cheated. Whenever he won, he would laugh and take a drink of rum and slap J. G. on the back and give him a banana and say what a good sort he was in spite of being a bloodthirsty monster. At one point J. G. had tried to explain that he was herbivorous and never ate meat; but the Explorer was busy arranging the cards under the table so he could deal himself four queens and did not hear.

Of course, J. G. realized all along that the Explorer was dealing the cards in a peculiar fashion and was adding the score up incorrectly (an excellent grasp of arithmetic is another advantage of having a tiny brain); but he reasoned that he was at fault and, being stupid, had failed to understand the rules. He wanted very much to please his new friend; so he noticed carefully the way the Explorer played and began to play that way himself, dealing cards from the bottom, hiding other cards in his fur and adding the score up incorrectly. As he had a Reflex-Reaction-Time of 9.6, he was much better at it than the Explorer and immediately won three games in a row.

When J. G. won the first game, the Explorer scowled and became silent.

When he won the second game, the Explorer said J. G. was an ugly, ignorant brute and failed to add that he was also a good fellow.

When J. G. won the third game, the Explorer stood up, knocked over the table, shouted that he was a cheat and a thief, took his dictionary, gathered up all the bananas, and left, slamming and locking the door.

J. G. did not see the Explorer for the rest of the trip. He didn’t see any more bananas either.

Two days later the ship docked and two Sailors came down to J. G.’s cabin. One of them carried an iron collar with a length of heavy chain attached to it.

“Cap’n says ... we should put this ... uh ... chain on you and bring you on deck,” he said. “Sir,” he added quickly, as J. G. raised his three hundred and fifty-four pounds from the floor.

J. G. was overjoyed to find he had not been abandoned. He said he would be glad to oblige. He took the collar and fitted it around his neck.

The Sailor mopped his brow with his sleeve. “Whatta ya know?” he said.

“It’s like the Cap’n says,” said the other Sailor. “He’s too stupid to make trouble. He’s big outside but he ain’t got no proper brain at all.”

J. G. hung his head in shame and moved sadly out into the companionway.

“Whatta ya know?” said the first Sailor. “Come on, hurry up. Move along,” he shouted all at once. He gave J. G. a shove.

“Snap it up, snap it up,” yelled the other Sailor, hitting J. G. across the back with the free end of the chain.

J. G. swung quickly up the ship’s ladder and came out on deck entirely unprepared for his first view of the Jungle. It was there, just at the other end of a long pier.

It was big. Steel and concrete towers rose in disordered splendor toward the sky. Across the water came the sweaty, sooty, smoggy scent of the Jungle and the screech and scrape, the clatter and clank, the rumble, the rattle, the roar of the Jungle. J. G. was so startled he turned and would have gone back down into the ship; but the Sailors jerked on the chain and pulled him toward the stern, where the Explorer stood savagely chewing on a long black cigar.

J. G. wished that he and the Explorer could be friends again. He smiled broadly and nodded to show that he meant no harm. The Explorer jumped back. “None of that,” he said. “Hold him, Men.” J. G. looked at the deck and felt unhappy.

“I’m going to tell you something for your own good,” said the Explorer. “People out there,” he indicated the Jungle, “won’t be as easy with you as me. You’ll have to get over your bad temper, learn some manners and Keep Your Place.”

J. G. nodded dumbly.

“Treat your Betters with respect. Do what you’re told. Don’t talk back. Be satisfied with what you get, and maybe you’ll get along. That’s How Things Are.”

J. G. thought about this and then asked exactly how were things?

“Don’t talk back!” yelled the Explorer, hurling his cigar to the deck and stamping on it. “Chain him to the stanchion. I’m going ashore.”

The Sailors chained J. G. to the stanchion and left him. He lay on the deck thinking. He wondered if his beautiful wife, Lotus, were somewhere in the Jungle. And if she were would he ever be able to find her? Would he ever be able to get back home himself? He wished he knew How Things Were. After a while he bit through the chain and stood by the rail looking out across the water.

When the Explorer returned to the ship, he was accompanied by Quimble, the Professor. Quimble was a small man with a wrinkled suit and face who wore spectacles attached to his coat by a black ribbon and socks that did not match. He walked around J. G., patted him on the back, smiled at him, felt his head and murmured “Excellent” four times. He then reached a financial agreement with the Explorer and invited J. G. to be his house guest. He extended a banana along with the invitation and J. G. accepted both readily.

J. G. was actually glad to leave the ship and go with Quimble, who seemed much friendlier than the Explorer; but when they reached the end of the pier and he saw the hundreds of Jungle Creatures hurrying in all directions at once, each seemingly impelled by some private crisis, he had a moment’s doubt. However, he followed Quimble into the crowd and was relieved to find that, as long as he remembered not to walk round-shouldered, no one paid the slightest attention to him.

Quimble lived in a clearing in the Jungle called the Campus. The Jungle Creatures sent their Young to the Campus to be taught How to Get Along in the World. The ones who were not able to learn How to Get Along in the World remained on the Campus, became Professors and taught other younger creatures How to Get Along in the World. It was a remarkable system and very effective, in that it invariably produced a surplus of Professors.

Quimble showed J. G. to a room in the basement of his home, which he called his laboratory, and brought him a crate of vegetables for supper. J. G. was grateful and determined to find out How Things Were so he wouldn’t displease Quimble and lose his friendship, as he had the Explorer’s.

Like the Explorer, Quimble also had games he wanted to play with J. G.; only his games involved round holes, square pegs, mazes, and ink blots, and were called Tests.

“I shall use your reactions to establish final proof for my theory, the Quimble Theory,” he said. “By observing and confining myself only to factual evidence, I shall be able to arrive at an irreversible and inflexible conclusion. That is the Scientific Method.”

J. G. was quite impressed. He asked Quimble what his Theory was.

Quimble’s thin face broke into a wide smile. It was the first time anyone had ever asked him this. He hurried over to J. G. and patted his head. “I am explaining it in a three-hundred-thousand-word paper,” he said confidentially, “which will be titled, The Opposed Thumb—the Principal Reason that Man is Superior to the Apes.”

J. G. looked at his thumb and asked what it was opposed to.

“Nothing,” said Quimble, rubbing his hands together. “You see it is much too high up on the forearm. It is not opposite the fingers and is, therefore, incapable of grasping; as is my thumb, for instance.”

J. G. looked at Quimble’s thumb.

“Ah,” said Quimble. “It’s too bad you are merely an un-evolved brute. I could explain it clearly if you could talk.”

J. G. thought about this for a while and then cautiously asked why he was not able to talk.

“Because you are a Gorilla, and it has been observed that Gorillas cannot speak, and what has once been proven is fact. That is the Scientific Method,” Quimble said.

J. G. asked if this was How Things Were and Quimble said, “Of course, of course, of course.” But he had lost interest in the conversation and was busy measuring J. G.’s feet. Before evolving his Theory, Quimble had devoted thirty years to a study of the psychology of Mice. He had constructed a complicated maze and would release mice at one end and see how long it took them to reach the cheese which he placed at the other end. As they became more adept at negotiating the maze, he introduced discouraging features such as metal plates, which gave them shocks, and barriers to climb. Later he tested their determination by striking at them with a sawed-off broom handle as they attempted to reach the food. He didn’t learn much, but he got rid of a surprising number of mice; for which he received an Award from the Rockefeller Institute.

The next day Quimble began giving J. G. a series of tests, which, remembering his experience with the Explorer, J. G. made sure that Quimble won. After every test Quimble appeared highly gratified. He would chuckle, take a drink of celery tonic and give J. G. a banana. Then he would gather up his notes and go upstairs, leaving J. G. alone.

During these periods when he was left alone, J. G. made a tremendous advance in his education. He learned to read. Once he had mastered the basic technique, he found that he was able to assimilate a great deal of information—an entire book, in fact—in a surprisingly short time. This was, no doubt, due to the fact that his small brain was so empty it offered no resistance to outside ideas. Of the number of books Quimble had lying about the laboratory, J. G. found that he enjoyed the ones on mathematics best; and, by the time Quimble announced that the Tests were completed, he had re-read Principia Mathematica four times with increasing pleasure.

Quimble had transcribed the results of his tests in a large ledger. Under the heading, “Positive and Final Proof for the Quimble Theory,” he had written:

At last I can say without fear of contradiction that the Quimble Theory is correct in all respects. With Subjects non-opposed thumb, it is impossible for him to manipulate or even pick up a simple device such as a cigarette lighter, or an automatic rifle. This precludes any possibility of his species ever developing civilization or culture on the high level made possible by Man’s opposed thumb.

The non-opposed thumb even makes it impossible for Subject to adjust to civilization as it is now established. When given at random a camera, a drill press and a typewriter, he was forced to operate all three devices with his feet. Under ordinary non-test conditions he would be wearing shoes and would therefore be completely helpless.

q. e. d.

And under the heading, “Uncorrected Evidence,” he had written:

Subject likes bananas. Significant???

Quimble was so proud of the result of the Tests that he invited a group of his colleagues to study J. G. The Colleagues, who were called Runcible, Rangle, Bypod and Partridge, inspected J. G.

And vice versa.

As none of the colleagues had any interest in Quimble’s Theory, they paid no attention to his conclusions and so agreed with him completely. With the exception of Partridge. It happened that Partridge was writing a Paper of his own entitled, The Malformed Larynx—the Principal Reason that Man is Superior to the Apes.

He engaged Quimble in argument.

“You can see for yourself,” he said to Quimble, “due to his malformed larynx he is unable to speak. That is what makes him inferior. His thumb is irrelevant...”

“The superior thumb of man has enabled him to develop the culture that led to the necessity for inventing language,” said Quimble.

“Thumb-schmumb,” said Partridge. “There’s nothing wrong with his thumb. He certainly exhibits more manual dexterity than you.”

“I have proven in my Paper that—”

“Can you peel bananas with your feet?”

“Thumbs are not on the feet.”

“His are,” said Partridge triumphantly. “He is four times as capable as you.”

“Bah!” said Quimble and left to spread rumors that Partridge was having incorrect relations with his forty-six-year-old secretary. Partridge also left to spread a report that Quimble had been seen at a Meeting attended by a Communist in 1949. This was the accepted method of debate used by Professors.

Runcible, Rangle and Bypod finished the rest of the cheap canapés Quimble had provided, inspected J. G. once again, agreed with each other that Quimble and Partridge were intellectual dilettantes and went home to work on their Theories.

The episode left J. G. feeling depressed, which is even harder for a Gorilla to feel than Unhappy. He knew his new friend, Quimble, was angry, but he didn’t know why. He felt it had something to do with How Things Were and wished he were not so subhuman and Retrogressive. He wished he knew what Retrogressive meant. He made a note to spend more time improving his vocabulary. He noticed that he was starting to shed.

Quimble and Partridge continued their debate at the Faculty Club and Quimble got more and more infuriated. An attack upon his Theory was tantamount to an attack upon his person; and, although his arguments got louder and louder, Partridge always came back to the same ridiculous point, “Can you peel bananas with your feet?”

“Irrelevant,” Quimble would shout.

“Communication is the unique factor,” Partridge would state with maddening calm. “If manual manipulation of external phenomena were the major factor, you and I would be skulking misfits in a world run by Lemurs, Chimpanzees and Opossums.”

Quimble would turn red in the face and say, “Bah!” or sometimes, “Pfagh!” and stalk out.

“Quimble is a good chap,” Partridge would say to the other Professors, “except for that idiotic monomania he has about thumbs. But, of course, what can we expect from a man with his political background?”

Quimble began to brood. He bought several stalks of bananas and spent hours trying to remove their skins with his toes in order to counteract Partridge’s arguments.

He was unsuccessful.

His fondness for J. G. began to diminish in direct proportion to his inability to answer Partridge’s argument. Every time Quimble saw J. G. reach for a banana, it seemed like a personal affront. J. G. became a living refutation of his Theory and an ally of that crackpot, Partridge. “I suspected you from the start,” he said to J. G. one day.

J. G. shuffled about and began to operate the drill press and the typewriter rapidly, hoping in some way to please his friend.

“I see it all now,” hissed Quimble. “You were planted here to spy on me. You’ve been working foot in glove with that Ignoramus.”

J. G. dealt a stacked hand of Pittsburgh Rummy, put four round pegs in square holes, field stripped the automatic rifle, and gave a moronic interpretation of a Rorschach Ink Blot.

Quimble did not notice. “Of course,” he said, “goodness me, I should have seen it. What a fool I’ve been. Partridge, that idiot, is too much of an idiot to have planned this idiotic campaign against me. It was you,” he leveled a shaking forefinger at J. G., “you—who engineered the entire thing. You have been against me from the start!” Quimble snatched up an empty fruit crate and splintered it over J. G.’s shoulders. He grabbed another crate and J. G. warily raised his arm over his head to protect himself. Quimble turned pale. “Help, help, Murder!” he shrilled. His eyeglasses fell to the floor and he scampered head first into the wall. Still shouting for assistance, he felt his way along the wall to the door and left.

J. G. knocked some splinters out of his ear and sighed. He found the Kleenex box and blew his nose loudly. He felt that he was in for another banana shortage. He was right.

When it came time for supper and there was none, J. G. decided he would have to go and look for some. He picked up Quimble’s eyeglasses and put the ribbon around his neck. Perhaps, he thought, if he could find Quimble and return the eyeglasses, they could become friends again. He wondered what he had done wrong this time. He went to the door and, not noticing that it was locked, opened it, went upstairs, through another door and out onto the Campus.

There was no sign of supper on the campus. The few trees were bare of leaves and their bark was withered and tasteless. J. G. ate several feet of a boxwood hedge but found it unappetizing. In spite of his coat of fashionable silver fur, he began to feel the chill of the early spring night; so, walking rapidly, he left the Campus, passing several groups of students, who took no notice of him, and headed toward a more brightly lit section of the jungle.

He had gone perhaps six blocks when he detected the faint, but unmistakable, smell of supper. He followed the smell and came to the store of Ambush, the Grocer. Through the brightly lit window he could see an abundance of fruit and vegetables in wooden boxes. He went inside and politely ate several bananas and a dozen plums.

Ambush’s daughter came from behind the counter and stared at J. G.’s massive physique. As she was the first Jungle female he had seen at such close quarters, he nodded, smiled and inspected her carefully.

Miss Ambush, because of certain private and disturbing fantasies that regularly imposed themselves upon her consciousness, thought of herself as a Nymphomaniac, not-knowing that Nymphomaniacs are only imaginary, folk-lore creatures that Small Boys are taught to believe in, like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. However, as no male had ever shown an interest in her, Miss Ambush had never had the opportunity to correct her humiliating opinion of herself. She shuffled closer to J. G. and looked up at him and said, “Gee.”

J. G. conquering an instinctive aversion to her thin, hairless arms, her sharp nose and her insignificant mouth, nodded sociably and ate two cantaloupes and a cauliflower.

She watched him with undisguised admiration. “You a Stoodent?” she said.

J. G. said well, yes, he was studying, trying to find out How Things Were.

“Huh?” she said.

J. G. repeated that he was interested in finding out How Things Were.

“Likewise, I’m sure,” she said, looking quickly over her shoulder toward a small door at the rear of the store. “I got a date tonight with a rich, handsome feller,” she said, “who has a Big Car. He wants to take me to Loew’s Uptown to see ‘Shoot ‘em in the Stomach and They Take Longer to Die.’ “ J. G. ate some bananas and nodded again.

“It’s a Western,” she added. J. G. thought how wonderfully friendly People were and he smiled at Miss Ambush and offered her a banana.

She ignored it and went on, “But I don’t think I’ll go with him—this rich handsome feller, I mean, with the Big Car —because he’s so crazy for me and he wants to squeeze me and hug me and kiss me ... and ... and... get fresh.” She frowned at J. G. and added crossly, “I don’t allow that. I got self-respect and I don’t have no unnatural thoughts, you hear?”

J. G. finished a cantaloupe, and said he was sure she didn’t.

“And I ain’t the type girl like Pappa says who’s always thinking about men, men all the time and reads trash magazines. I got a clean mind.” She ran her hand over J. G.’s arm and plucked at the fashionable fur. “Hey, you Stoodents sure dress funny,” she giggled. “Have you seen ‘Shoot ‘em in the Stomach and They Take Longer to Die’?”

J. G. said he didn’t think he had.

“Ya like to?” she asked quickly.

J. G said it was awfully nice of her to ask and finished the bananas and ate six inches off the bottom of the stalk.

“Pappa, Pappa,” shouted Miss Ambush untying her apron. “Pappa, Pappa, Pappa.”

A thick man came out of the back room carrying a sandwich and a newspaper. He wiped Russian Dressing off his chin and looked at J. G. with mistrust.

“Hey, what’sa hoppen?” he said.

“Pappa, this feller asked me to the movies,” Miss Ambush said, scurrying behind the counter, collecting her hat, coat, and shoes.

“Ahhh! O Ho!” said Ambush. His face twitched and froze into an expression which J. G. rightly assumed to be a smile. “Hey!” he said, “so you take out Pipola?” He bounded forward and banged J. G. in the ribs with his elbow. “Ho Ho! Hey,” he said, “you got a Big Car?”

J. G. said no, he didn’t

Ambush shrugged. “Hokay, hokay,” he said. “Who cares?” He slapped J. G. on the back with the hand that had the sandwich in it and splashed Russian Dressing in his ear. “You smott feller. Pipola is good girl, you bet. Feller who get Pipola is locky feller. She good cook. Stay home. Not like girls who all time think about nothing but feller and making monkey’s business. She got no bad thoughts, you bet.” He turned and scowled ferociously at his daughter, who rushed from behind the counter and took J. G.’s arm.

“Pappa,” she said, “cut that out.”

“Hokay,” said Ambush. “You howa good time, you bet, and—” He suddenly stopped. He had moved from behind the counter and he was staring at the bare banana stalk.

“Hey!” he said. “What’s hoppen to fruits?”

“Now, Pappa,” Miss Ambush said.

Ambush slapped both hands to his head. “And canna-loops. Gone! and plumses!” J. G. had a feeling that he had done something wrong again.

“Now, Pappa, cut that out,” Miss Ambush said desperately. “We’re going to the movies.”

Ambush took a deep breath and held it while he ground the rest of the sandwich into the counter. “Hokay,” he said exhaling. “Six dollar bananases. Wholesales. Four dollar plumses ... Hokay. Who cares?” he finished jovially.

“Let’s go,” said Miss Ambush. “C’mon.”

J. G. finished the last cantaloupe and turned toward the door but Ambush grabbed his arm.

“Hey! Sport!” he said sternly. “Jost a minutes. What’s you name?”

J. G. told him.

“Primates. Hey, thot’s Greek name, ha?”

J. G. said he didn’t think so.

“Hokay,” said Ambush after a moment. “Who cares? Hey, what you take up on Compuss? Medical? Engineer? Foots-balls?”

J. G. said he didn’t really know, as he had just been a guest of Quimble, the Professor, for a short time, and actually he was only interested in trying to find his beautiful wife, Lotus, who had been lost in—

Ambush interrupted with a horrified shout “HOO?” he said. “You got already wife?”

J. G. said oh yes, of course, and Ambush made a strangled sound and pounded his fist against his head.

“Let’s go. C’mon. Let’s go,” said Miss Ambush, leaning against the small of J. G.’s back and shoving. “Let’s go.”

“No gone nowhere!” yelled Ambush. He peeled her away from J. G. and dragged her backwards. “You crazy?” he yelled swinging a backhand blow at her head which she ducked automatically.

“Pappa,” she wailed, “you cut that out. He’s a nice feller.”

J. G. decided he had better be going before these People got angry with him, but Ambush leapt to the door and blocked it.

“Hokay, Sport,” he said ominously. “You eat oop all fruits. You owing ten bucks.”

J. G. understood that he was supposed to give something in return for the bananas and fruit he had eaten; he produced his deck of cards and offered to deal a stacked hand of Pittsburgh Rummy.

Ambush pounded his head again. “Where’s my fifteens bucks? You got expansive fur coat so pay opp.” He held out a quivering palm. “Hand over.”

J. G. regretfully indicated he had nothing to hand over. Ambush opened the door enough to get his head outside and began to yell. “Poliss! Holp! Poliss!”

“Pappa, Pappa,” bawled Miss Ambush, rushing to J. G.’s side. “You let him alone, Pappa.”

“Poliss. poliss. POLISS!”

Now J. G. was sure that he had done something wrong. He wondered what it was this time. Perhaps he was so stupid that he would never learn How Things Are. He scratched his head and noticed that he was shedding again.

Kelly, the Cop, came to the door then; and, when Ambush explained the situation, Kelly sternly told J. G. that he must pay Ambush the twenty dollars he owed him. J. G. could tell that everyone was displeased with him. He felt so lonely and ashamed he could do nothing but stand and stare at the floor.

“Let him alone, Pappa,” said Miss Ambush. “I’ll pay for the fruit.”

“Shoddop,” shouted Ambush. “Go in back room! You hear? You crazy.” He addressed Kelly, who was busy dropping apples into a paper sack he carried about for that purpose. “Ron him in,” he said.

“I don’t know if it’s strictly legal and all,” said Kelly. “It strikes me this creature isn’t no human being. It strikes me he’s more like a ape.”

Miss Ambush waved her finger defiantly at Kelly. “It takes one to know one,” she screamed.

“Ape?” jeered Ambush. “Does ape have eyeglasses? Ha?”

“Well, no,” said Kelly. “I admit you have a telling point there.”

“Ron him in,” said Ambush and turned to his daughter, who was bawling at the top of her voice. “Shoddop,” he said paternally.

And so Kelly took J. G. by the arm and escorted him toward the Station House.

On top of everything else, J. G. was still hungry.

At the station house, Kelly took J. G. before the Sergeant who was seated behind a high desk. The sergeant leaned over and peered closely at J. G. “Name?” he said.

J. G. told him and he laboriously inscribed it in a ledger. “Occupation?” he said and J. G. told him he was a Gorilla. “Oh,” said the Sergeant with a note of respect in his voice. He looked at J. G. more intently and motioned to Kelly. “You recognize him?” he said.

“Not me,” Kelly said. “Maybe he’s a Outta Towner.”

“How about that?” the Sergeant said. “Where you from?”

J. G. said that he had only recently arrived and that originally he was from Mount Kallahili.

The Sergeant looked at Kelly and nodded. “Better call Mr. Onnatazio,” he said in a low voice. He wrote something else in the ledger, then scowled and said to no one in particular: “Heldovergeneralsessionscourt — tuesdayalloweda-makeonephonecall.”

A guard tapped J. G. politely on the shoulder and escorted him through another room, where a small, surly man shouted, “Hey,” held up a camera and flashed a bright light at them. Then they went into an elevator. From the elevator they went down a long corridor, up a flight of iron steps and into a small antiseptic-smelling cell. “I’ll let you know as soon as Mr. Onnatazio sends someone,” the Guard said. “It usually don’t take more’n a hour.”

The Guard was wrong. No one sent anyone for J. G. After a while he decided not to wait and curled up on the concrete floor and went to sleep instantly.

The next morning the newspapers carried headlines which said: daring robbery foiled by grocer and ape man CAPTURED BY HEROIC POLICEMAN and RECENT CRIME WAVE laid to ape man. There were pictures of J. G. and the Sergeant on the front page.

J. G. was awakened at ten o’clock by another Guard, who brought him a bowl of oatmeal and four slices of cold toast. “You got a visitor,” he told J. G. J. G. jumped up, thanked the Guard and attempted to smooth down his hair. Perhaps it was his old friend the Explorer, or his friend Quimble, the Professor, or maybe his unknown friend, Mr. Onnatazio.

“It’s Flack, the Publicity Agent,” said the Guard.

Flack was a young man in a depressing suit who was accompanied by three attractive girls. From a distance, they inquired about J. G.’s health and then left. The afternoon editions of the newspapers had larger headlines which said: TV ACTRESS IDENTIFIES APE MAN AS ATTACKER and TORE clothes off says model. There were pictures of the TV Actress in bed, with a dotted line leading from the window to her bodice. There were larger pictures of the Model demonstrating how her clothing had been disarranged.

The late-afternoon editions had even larger headlines: ASSAULTED TWELVE TIMES IN HOUR SAYS MODEL. There were pictures of the Model, whose name was Wanda Axelrod, the Model’s roommate, the Model’s parents, a scratch on the Model’s knee and the Model’s High School Chemistry Teacher. There were no pictures of the Sergeant, or J. G., or the TV Actress.

That evening, right after supper, J. G. had another visitor. It was Pipola Ambush, the Grocer’s daughter. She came in carrying a bag of bananas, a bundle wrapped in brown paper and a large box. “I couldn’t get away before,” she said. “Pappa is watching me like a bloodhound. Did you really do—like they said to those girls in the paper?”

J. G. said he didn’t understand what she meant but, in any. case, he hadn’t done anything to any girls. He was sure.

“Urn,” said Miss Ambush. “When I read about it, I got so mad at Pappa I coulda killed him. Look, I brought you something.” She gave him the bananas and then opened the box. Inside was a chocolate cake.

J. G. said he certainly appreciated her thoughtfulness and ate the bananas.

“I baked it myself,” Miss Ambush said as J. G. started on the cake. “I like to cook and sew and stuff. I’m not like those dirty minded girls who make up all those things about you in the papers. Ya sure you didn’t do—you know, like they said—to them?”

Oh, no, honestly, he didn’t, J. G. said.

“Um,” she said. “It must be awful to have dirty minds like they have.”

She clucked her tongue and began unwrapping the bundle she had carried in. “I figured you’d be chilly here,” she said. “I brought you one of Pappa’s coats. It’s from his lodge outfit and he’ll never miss it, ‘cause they blackballed him outta the lodge for losin’ his temper.” She unfolded a long, black coat with gold buttons and gold piping on the lapels. She trotted around behind J. G. and held it up. “Try it on,”‘ she said. “It oughta fit, I let out the back as far as I could.”

J. G. said it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and that it fit him fine. He even managed to get one button buttoned.

“Gee,” said Miss Ambush, “you look swell.” She stood back and admired him. “Are you sure you never did any of those things like those dirty minded girls made up you did?”

J. G. said he was sure. Miss Ambush swallowed and then said brightly, “Well, I gotta hurry back now. Besides Pappa watching me, I gotta date with this boy friend who’s a handsome Surgeon and a Doctor and he’s gotta big Cadillac and is crazy for me and wants to make advances and put his arms around me ... and...” Suddenly Miss Ambush stopped and stared pathetically at J. G. The place where her chin should have been quivered, and two large tears formed in her eyes, and trickled down her thin cheeks.

J. G. became alarmed. He asked if something was wrong and if he could do anything to help.

Miss Ambush’s tiny mouth opened several times and finally she said, “I gotta go home,” and, clutching her purse tightly against herself with both hands, she left and walked rapidly down the corridor.

J. G. shook his head. He wondered if Miss Ambush was sick. He wondered if he had done anything to make her unhappy. He hoped not because she had truly been very kind to him, bringing him food and the beautiful coat. He rubbed his hand over the piping on the sleeve and thought how proud his wife, Lotus, would be to see him so dressed up.

The next morning J. G. had his third and last visitor. “It’s McKooly,” the Guard said. J. G. asked who McKooly was and the Guard looked at him curiously. “He does things for Mr. Onnatazio,” he said. He left the door unlocked and in a few minutes McKooly walked in and stood frowning at J. G.

McKooly was perhaps fifty years old, had straight dark hair, graying at the sides, heavy eyebrows, large, black eyes behind steel rimmed glasses, and his head barely came to J. G.’s shoulder. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. “All right,” he said, “what’s the big idea?”

J. G. shuffled his feet and said he didn’t have any idea— not even a little idea.

“You can get in big trouble using Mr. Onnatazio’s name around here,” he said. “Or anywhere else for that matter.” J. G. said there must be some misunderstanding. “You bet there is,” McKooly said, “I checked on you yesterday. No one in the Syndicate ever heard of you. You got no record.” McKooly suddenly thrust his forefinger at J. G. and said in a hard, flat voice, “What’s your angle, pal?” J. G. ducked away and crouched warily in the corner. McKooly started at him, then shrugged. “It strikes me,” he said, “that you’re a wee bit stupid.”

J. G. traced an invisible circle on the floor with his non-opposed thumb and admitted this was true. He said he was sorry he had such a small, stupid, useless brain; but, being a Gorilla, there was nothing he could do about it.

McKooly took a step forward and regarded J. G. with fresh interest. “A Gorilla?” he said softly. “A real Gorilla? You know you could be at that, though I’d of sworn you were Hibernian. Could it be, do you suppose, that you’re an Irish type of Ape?”

J. G. said no he was just a Gorilla type of Primate. McKooly’s attitude changed completely and he clucked sympathetically. “Imagine,” he said, “putting a dumb beast in a miserable jail. It’s a violation of your Civil Rights. You should be in a nice Zoo.” He threw his cigarette on the floor and stamped on it. “It’s a disgrace,” he said indignantly. “I’m going to see what I can do for you.”

For some reason, possibly because he had little liking for his own kind, possibly because he had no family, possibly because he was small, McKooly felt a deep and sincere affection for animals. He fed stray cats, adopted lost dogs, kept three white mice in his hotel room and put bread crumbs on his window sill for pigeons.

“I tell you what,” he said suddenly and J. G. sat up. He had been desperately hoping someone would tell him what.

“I’ll have Tort get you out of here as soon as I can get in touch with him,” McKooly said. He looked at his watch. “As soon as you get out you come and see me. Here’s the address.” He wrote “Hotel Van Dixon” and a street number on an envelope and gave it to J. G. “I’ll talk to Mr. Onnatazio,” he said, “and maybe you can go to work for him. He can always use someone your size.”

He opened his wallet and handed J. G. a five dollar bill. “This’ll keep you from starving to death in the meantime.” McKooly then shook hands, said once again that it was a disgrace the way J. G. was being treated and left.

J. G. looked at the five dollar bill suspiciously and then ate it. It had a pleasant green taste, but he didn’t think it would keep him from starving. Not for long anyway.

That afternoon J. G. was taken from his cell to a large, high ceilinged room with worn oak paneling. A sign on the high double doors said, “General Sessions Court. Judge Ponder presiding.” A dozen people were huddled on benches which faced a high desk, behind which sat a kindly looking man wearing a black robe.

Ponder, the Judge, was a kind man who took his responsibilities seriously and was even trusted to a limited degree in some sections of the Jungle. When J. G. was brought before him, he inspected him thoughtfully, called for the arresting officer’s report, read it and then asked J. G. to hold up his hand so he could see his thumb.

“Bailiff,” Ponder said, “in my opinion the officer’s original suspicions were correct. The defendant does indeed seem to be an anthropoid of the family Simiidae. To wit, a gorilla. An unusual specimen, to be sure, but certainly a gorilla.”

The bailiff stared, horrified, at J. G. “Stand back, your honor!” he shouted. “I’ll get the riot squad. We’ll capture him!”

“Don’t be silly,” Ponder said. “He is in no need of capturing. He seems quite rational and, as he has been subjected to due process of law so far, he is, according to precedent, entitled to the full extent of that due process. Proceed with the case.”

“Against an ape, your honor?” the bailiff said.

“I have devoted my life to serving the principles of liberalism upon which our system of jurisprudence is founded,” Ponder said. “Am I to deny this creature, or any creature, the right to fair and equitable justice because he differs from us in race, creed or species? Would you have it said that I practiced discrimination?”

“Heaven forbid!” the bailiff said.

“In the eyes of the court, all defendants are equal,” Ponder said, “and this one may be more equal than most. Having a tiny gorilla brain, he no doubt needs help and advice rather than correction. How fortunate for him that I am a liberal judge. Proceed.”

The bailiff read the charge against J. G.

When he had finished, Ponder leaned forward and addressed J. G. in a sympathetic manner. “Primate, my boy,” he said, “you were arrested and placed in jail because you appropriated property belonging to someone else, to wit: bananas. There are laws against this.”

J. G. said he was sorry, but he had been very hungry.

“Motivation is considered by the court only if in so far as it assists in establishing guilt.”

J. G. rubbed his nose and respectfully asked if there were also laws against starving to death.

“Certainly not,” Ponder said, “unless the Party contemplating the action intends to perpetrate it in a public place, thereby blocking traffic. This constitutes a Nuisance. Ordinance 763, paragraph 4.”

J. G. said he would remember.

“You must understand,” Ponder continued, “that laws are made primarily for the protection of property rights. In your original aboriginal society, food grows plentifully for the picking and population is low. The reverse is true here. You have a built-on fur coat. We must wear clothing. We need many thing besides food and are forced to employ a complex system whereby a common medium of exchange is traded for goods and services. Some make overcoats, some build homes, others study medicine, tap telephones or repair stoves. All trade their specialized skills for food grown by the farmer, processed by the processor and distributed by the distributor. You must learn to fit yourself into this system. Utilize some specialized skill of your own and trade it for food.”

J. G. said he understood. He could trade his specialized skill as a banana stealer for food and shelter in the jail.

“Urn, that’s not exactly what I mean,” Ponder said. “You must learn to do something constructive, so that you can Get Ahead and Amount to Something.”

J. G. said he meant no disrespect but Why?

“Because,” said Ponder, “that’s the Way Things Are.”

J. G. had been afraid this was Why.

“The subject is too large for your small brain,” Ponder told him. “Remember I am older and therefore wiser than you. Take my word for it. First you must learn to Make Something of Yourself. Then it will be easy for you to Amount to Something. Cultivate good manners. Be punctual. Keep your hair combed. Don’t criticize. Honesty is the best policy. Avoid evil companions. Step out into the hall. You’re shedding on the floor.”

J. G. stepped into the hall and Ponder called to him through the open door. “As this is your first offense, you are placed on thirty days’ probation. You are free to go. Get yourself an honest job. Crime does not pay.”