Alien creatures destroy homes? Start by killing upright apes!

Chapter 74 Public Opinion

The upright apes in the photos are always squatting in a corner, clutching a small twig in their hands, their eyes full of confusion.

In speeches, the upright apes are always portrayed as docile, polite, misunderstood, and hurt.

"Send MI6 agents to see me," David said.

In the city of Li, the parade was even larger than in the foggy city of Chongqing.

They covered up the huge eye pattern of the upright ape made of stone.

The crowd held up candles and sang a song whose melody was taken from a church hymn, but the lyrics were changed to "Black blood and red blood, all are God's children."

The lead singer was a young nun, dressed in a greyish-white monastic habit, standing on the steps of Notre Dame Cathedral, her voice as clear as spring water.

In a café on the edge of the square, George sat by the window with a cold espresso in front of him.

The Toulon fleet commander sat opposite him, his back ramrod straight.

"Prime Minister, the fleet has entered combat readiness as you ordered. All twelve battleships are fully loaded with coal, their cannons are loaded, and the sailors' leave has been canceled. But this morning, a sailor posted a note at the entrance to the barracks that read: 'Why are we attacking them? They're playing lullabies for us.'"

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"Where is that sailor?"

"You've been put in solitary confinement, but the news about the note has already spread, and half the fleet's sailors are talking about it. Representatives from the crew committee are coming to see you this afternoon, demanding that you provide a legitimate reason for starting the war."

George picked up his cold coffee and took a sip; the bitterness spread from the back of his tongue to his throat.

"A legitimate reason? The shipping lanes at Toulon have been blocked by Anomalocaris for almost a month, preventing my battleships from leaving port, and he's asking me for a legitimate reason?"

"He said it was Anomalocaris that blocked it, not Homo erectus. Homo erectus was just playing a lullaby for Anomalocaris, maybe it was helping us soothe Anomalocaris."

George placed the coffee cup back on the table, the bottom of the cup making a dull thud.

"Tell him the best way to appease the Anomalocaris is to remove it from the shipping lanes, not to sing it lullabies. Also tell him he doesn't need to come see me this afternoon; go directly to Toulon Port, stand on the pier, and see for himself whether those 'appeased' Anomalocaris have moved even a meter."

The fleet commander stood up, saluted, and left.

George sat alone by the window, looking at the sea of ​​candles in the square.

The candlelight shone on the rose window of Notre Dame, illuminating the stained glass windows.

He recalled the image of him pointing at the upright apes with an unlit cigar in his mouth on Advent Day, an image that appeared on the front page of Le Figaro with the headline "It is this hand that points to our future."

Right now, he wishes he could go back and knock that hand off.

In Rome, the procession stretched from the Colosseum all the way to the gates of the Vatican.

A group of seminary students dressed in monks’ robes walked in the front row, holding crosses and candles.

One of them was dressed in full monk's robes, his head bowed, his hands clasped together.

When he reached the gates of Vatican City, the monk suddenly stopped and pulled back the hood of his robe.

A gasp of surprise rippled through the crowd.

The Swiss Guard members standing on the city gate nearly fell off the city wall.

That was an upright ape.

Wearing a monk's robe and a cross, with his hands clasped together.

It looked at the guards on the city wall with its clear black and white eyes, and then said three words in an extremely clear and calm tone.

"Bless you."

The crowd erupted.

It wasn't an explosion of anger, it was an explosion of emotion.

Some people knelt down and cried on the spot, some reached out to touch the edge of its robe, and some began to sing hymns.

The upright ape put its hood back on, turned around, and blended into the crowd, like a drop of black water falling into a colorful river.

Vito stood on the city wall, watching the upright ape disappear into the crowd.

The intelligence officer stood behind him, his face showing a look of utter disbelief.

"Prime Minister, should we send someone over—"

"Where are you sending them? In the crowd? 150,000 people, how do you plan to find them? Check each hood one by one? If you check one, they'll exchange it for ten robes. If you check ten people, the crowd will trample you to death."

Vito stubbed out his cigarette on the battlements and continued, "They're not marching, they're using marches. Humans take to the streets for them, and they hide in human enthusiasm. If you arrest them, you're arresting your own voters."

In Kyoto, the land of Taro Tanuki, the parade was much smaller in scale, but more complicated in nature.

A huge portrait hangs at the entrance to the camp.

It's that upright ape wearing a kimono and eating a persimmon, sitting on a dry landscape stone platform, holding a persimmon slice in its hand, with a gentle look in its eyes.

Below the portrait is a line of text: It gets hungry, it feels pain, and it writes poetry.

Logically, the students should respect him.

But they didn't.

"Professor Yamamoto, you've studied hominids for so long, you should know them best!" a girl shouted, pointing at him. "They're not wild animals! They can write poetry! You yourself said that their symbolic system has a verse structure!"

Professor Yamamoto pushed his glasses up a little.

"Yes, they have verse structures. They can arrange pebbles into complete sentences, engrave copper coin lists, eat persimmons with chopsticks, and go shopping in kimonos. I know all of that, but their blood is black."

"Does the color of blood matter?" Another student stood up, his eyes red-rimmed. "My grandmother passed away last year. Her veins were blue—varicose veins. By your logic, shouldn't she have been beaten to death too? Because her blood wasn't red enough?"

Professor Yamamoto opened his mouth, but couldn't utter a single word.

I wasn't persuaded by reason; I was overwhelmed by emotion.

Massa stood on the second floor of the mansion, looking down at the camp through the bamboo curtain.

The Secretary of the Army stood behind him, holding a newly drafted order in Bertswana; there was no parade.

This small southern country only recently got telegram service, and no one organized any protests.

But the area under the old chief Moser's mango tree was more lively than the parade.

Villagers from three nearby villages came running, surrounding his yard in layers, because Mosse had carved the twelfth empty circle on the door frame that morning.

The twelve circles are arranged in two rows, with six in each row.

All of them are empty circles.

Neither greeting nor seeing off, neither closing nor opening eyes.

The villagers squatted on the ground, looking up at the twelve empty rings.

Someone asked him what these circles meant.