Ras Thavas made a gesture of impatience. “Nonsense!” he cried. “You are better off here, where you can be preserved in the interests of science.”
“Accede to his request,” I begged, “and I will myself take over all responsibility for him while I profit by the study that he will afford me.”
“Do as you are directed,” snapped Ras Thavas as he quit the room.
I shrugged my shoulders. “There is nothing for it, then,” I said.
“I might dispatch you all and escape,” mused the ape, aloud, “but you would have helped me. I could not kill one who would have befriended me—yet I shrink from the thought of another death. How long have I lain here?”
I referred to the history of his case that had been brought and suspended at the head of the table. “Twelve years,” I told him.
“And yet, why not?” he demanded of himself. “This man would slay me—why should I not slay him first.”
“It would do you no good,” I assured him, “for you could never escape. Instead you would be really killed, dying a death from which Ras Thavas would probably think it not worth while ever to recall you, while I, who might find the opportunity at some later date and who have the inclination, would be dead at your hands and thus incapable of saving you.”
I had been speaking in a low voice, close to his ear, that the attendants might not overhear me. The ape listened intently.
“You will do as you suggest?” he asked.