“Don’t run! Negotiate!”

“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 12.”

“Shoot a picture.”

“Here it comes…”

“No sale.”

“AAAAAAA-choo!”

“That the blizzard?”

“No. I’m a cloud-burst.”

“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 41.”

“Shoot a picture.”

“Here it is.”

“Not them.”

“How do you climb a palm tree?”

“You shinny up.”

“Not up. Down.”

“How’d you get up, your honor?”

“I don’t know. A moose helped me.”

“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 37.”

“Let’s have the picture.”

“Here it comes.”

“No sale.”

“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 60.”

“Go ahead.”

“Here’s the picture…”

“Pass ’em by.”

“How long do we have to keep on travelling?”

“They’re at least eight hours ahead.”

“No. Correction, peepers. They’ve got eight hours start but they may not be eight hours ahead.”

“Spell that out, will you, Linc.”

“Reich may not have trekked straight ahead. He may have circled around to a favorite spot close to the gate.”

“Favorite for what?”

“For murder.”

“Excuse me. How does one persuade a cat not to devour one?”

“Use Political Psychology.”

“Use your Barrier screen, Mr. Secretary.”

“Party ahead, Linc. Sector 1.”

“Shoot a picture, Mr. Superintendent.”

“Here it is.”

“Pass ’em by, sir. That’s Reich and Hassop.”

“WHAT!”

“Don’t make a fuss. Don’t make anybody suspicious. Just pass ’em by. When you’re out of sight, circle around to Sector 2. Everybody head back for the Gate and go home. All my thanks. From here on I’ll take it alone.”

“Leave us in on the kill, Linc.”

“No. This needs finesse. I don’t want Reich to know I’m abducting Hassop. It’s all got to look logical and natural and unimpeachable. It’s a swindle.”

“And you’re the thief to do it.”

“Who stole the weather, Powell?”

The departing peepers were propelled by a hot blush.

This particular square mile of Reservation was jungle, humid, swampy, overgrown. As darkness fell, Powell slowly wormed his way toward the glimmering camp fire Reich had built in a clearing alongside a small lake. The water was infested with hippo, crocodile, and swambat. The trees and terrain swarmed with life. The entire junglette was a savage tribute to the brilliance of Reservation ecologists who could assemble and balance nature on the point of a pin. And in tribute to that nature, Reich’s Defensive Barrier Screen was in full operation.

Powell could hear mosquitoes whine as they batted against the outer rim of the barrier, and there was an intermittent hail of larger insects caroming off the invisible wall. Powell could not risk operating his own. The screens hummed slightly and Reich had keen ears. He inched forward and peeped.

Hassop was at ease, relaxed, just a little beglamoured by the idea of intimacy with his puissant chief, just a little intoxicated by the knowledge that his film cannister contained Ben Reich’s fate. Reich, working feverishly on a crude, powerful bow, was planning the accident that would eliminate Hassop. It was that bow and the sheaf of fire-tipped arrows alongside Reich that had eaten up the eight hours start on Powell. You can’t kill a man in a hunting accident unless you go hunting.