“What do they do in there? Rub sticks together?”

“Sure. You hike on your own feet. You carry your own food. You take one Defensive Barrier Screen with you so’s the bears don’t eat you. If you want a fire you got to build it. If you want to hunt animals, you got to make your own weapons. If you want to catch fish, likewise. You versus nature. And they make you sign a release in case nature wins.”

“Then how are we going to find Hassop?”

“Sign a release and go hike for him.”

“The two of us? Cover twenty-five hundred square miles of geography? How many squadmen can you spare?”

“Maybe ten.”

“Adding up to two hundred and fifty square miles per cop. Impossible.”

“Maybe you could persuade the Spaceland Board — No. Even if you could, we wouldn’t be able to get the Board together under a week. Wait a minute! Could you get ’em together by peeping ’em? Send out urgent messages or something? How do you peepers work that anyway?”

“We can only pick you up. We can’t transmit to anybody except another peeper, so — Hey! Ho! That’s an idea!”

“What’s an idea?”

“Is a human being a mechanical device?”

“Nope.”

“Is he a civilized invention?”

“Not lately.”

“Then I’m going to do some fast co-opting and take my own Radar into the Reservation.”

Which is why a sudden craving for nature overtook a prominent lawyer in the midst of delicate contractual negotiations in one of Spaceland’s luxurious conference rooms. The same craving also came upon the secretary of a famous author, a judge of domestic relations, a job analyst screening applicants for the United Hotel Association, an industrial designer, an efficiency engineer, the Chairman of Amalgamated Union’s Grievance Committee, Titan’s Superintendent of Cybernetics, a Secretary of Political Psychology, two Cabinet members, five Parliamentary Leaders, and scores of other Esper clients of Spaceland at work and at play.

They filed through the Reservation Gate in a unified mood of holiday festivity and assorted gear. Those that had gotten word on the grapevine early enough were in sturdy camping clothes. Others were not; and the astonished gate guards, checking and inspecting for illicit baggage, saw one lunatic in full diplomatic regalia march through with a pack on his back. But all the nature-lovers carried detailed maps of the Reservation carefully zoned into sectors.

Moving swiftly, they spread out and beat forward across the miniature continent of weather and geography. The TP Band crackled as comments and information swept up and down the line of living radar in which Powell occupied the central position.

“Hey. No fair, I’ve got a mountain dead ahead.”

“Snowing here. Full b-b-blizzard.”

“Swamps and (ugh!) mosquitoes in my sector.”

“Hold it. Party ahead, Linc. Sector 21.”

“Shoot a picture.”

“Here it is…”

“Sorry. No sale.”

“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 9.”

“Let’s have the picture.”

“Here it comes…”

“Nope. No sale.”

“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 17.”

“Shoot a picture.”

“Hey! It’s a goddam bear!”