interest.
Periodically, the three who had spun the cover darted to it, one by one,
judiciously applying enough force to keep it balanced and in steady
motion. Their timing revealed at least a rudimentary understanding of
the laws of physics and a mechanical skill that belied their ordinary
appearance.
The tightly rotating disc sang roughly, its iron edge grinding against
the concrete pavement. This low metallic song had become the sole sound
in the night, nearly a one-note drone, oscillating only faintly over a
half-tone range.
The spinning manhole cover didn’t seem to provide sufficient spectacle
to explain the intensity of the troop’s attention. They were rapt.
Almost in a trance. I found it difficult to believe that the disc,
merely by chance, could have achieved the precise rotational velocity
that, combined with exactly these oscillating tones, was hypnotic to
monkeys.
Perhaps this wasn’t a game that I was witnessing, not play but ritual, a
ceremony with a symbolic significance that was clear to these rhesuses
but was an impenetrable mystery to me. Ritual and symbol not only
implied abstract thinking but raised the possibility that these monkeys’
lives had a spiritual dimension, that they were not just smart but
capable of brooding about the origin of all things and the purpose of
their existence.
This idea disconcerted me so much that I almost turned away from the
window.
In spite of their hostility toward humanity and their enthusiasm for
violence, I already had sympathy for these pathetic creatures, was moved
by their status as outcasts with no rightful place in nature. If they
indeed possess the capacity to wonder about God and about the design of
the cosmos, then they may know the exquisite pain that humanity .
knows too well, the yearning to understand why our Creator allows us to
suffer so much, the terrible unfulfilled longing to find Him, to see His
face, to touch Him, and to know that He is real. If they share this
quiet but profound agony with us, then I sympathize with their plight,
but I also pity them.
And while pitying them, how can I kill them without hesitation if
another confrontation requires me to do so in order to save my life or
that of a friend? In one previous encounter, I’ve had to meet their
ferocious assault with gunfire. Lethal force is easy to use when your
adversary is as mindless as a shark. And you can pull the trigger
without remorse when you are able to match your enemy’s hatred with pure
hatred of your own. Pity engenders second thoughts, hesitation.
Pity may be the key to the door of Heaven, if Heaven exists, but it is
not an advantage when you are fighting for your life against a pitiless
opponent.
From the street came a change in the sound of the spinning iron, a
greater oscillation between tones. The manhole cover had begun to lose
rotational velocity.
None in the troop rushed forward to stabilize the whirligig. They
watched with curious fascination as it wobbled, as its song changed to a
steadily slowing wah-waah-waaah-waaaah.
The disc clattered to a halt, flat on the pavement, and at the same
instant the monkeys froze. A final note rang across the night, followed
by silence and stillness so absolute that Dead Town might have been
sealed inside a gigantic Lucite paperweight. As far as I could tell,
every member of the troop gazed with magnetized eyes at the iron manhole
cover.
After a while, as though waking from a deep sleep, they drifted dreamily
toward the disc. They slowly circled it, hunched low with the knuckles
of their forepaws grazing the pavement, examining the iron with the
pensive attitude of Gypsies analyzing wet tea leaves to read the future.
A few hung back, either because something about the disc made them
uneasy or because they were waiting their turn. These hesitant
individuals conspicuously directed their attention toward anything but
the manhole cover, on the pavement, on the trees that lined the street,
on the star-stippled sky.
One of the beasts glanced at the bungalow in which I had taken refuge.
I didn’t hold my breath or tense up, because I was confident that