The Demolished Man Part 18

"Whooooo?"

"Any-y-bod-y."

"NO LOUD TALKING OR LAUGHTER... PLEASE!"

Powell found his police sergeant in the s.p.a.celand Globe Theater where a magnificent Esper actress stirred thousands with her moving performances---performances that owed as much to her telepathic sensitivity to audience response as to her exquisite command of stage technique. The cop, immune to the star's appeal, was gloomily inspecting the house, face by face. Powell took his arm and led him out.

"He's in the Reservation," Powell told him. "Took Ha.s.sop with him. Took Ha.s.sop's luggage too. Perfect alibi. He was shaken up by the crash and he needs a rest. Also company. He's eight hours ahead of us."

"The Reservation, huh?" the sergeant pondered. "Twenty-five hundred square miles of more d.a.m.ned animals, geography, and weather than you ever see is three lives."

"What's the odds Ha.s.sop has a fatal accident, if he hasn't had one already?"

"No takers at any price."

"If we want to get Ha.s.sop out we'll have to grab a Helio and do some fast hunting."

"Uh-uh. No mechanical transportation allowed in the Reservation."

"This is an emergency. Old Man Mose has got to have Ha.s.sop!"

"Go let that d.a.m.n machine argue with the s.p.a.celand Board. You could get special permission in maybe three four weeks."

"By which time Ha.s.sop'd be dead and buried. What about Radar or Sonar? We could work out Ha.s.sop's pattern and ---"

"Uh-uh. No mechanical devices outside of cameras allowed in the Reservation."

"What the h.e.l.l plays with that Reservation?"

"Hundred per cent guaranteed pure nature for the eager beavers. You go in at your own risk. Element of danger adds spice to your trip. Get the picture? You battle the elements. You battle the wild animals. You feel primitive and refreshed again. That's what the ads say."

"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 Ha.s.sop?"

"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 s.p.a.celand 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 s.p.a.celand's luxurious conference rooms. The same craving also came upon the secretary of a famous author, a judge of domestic relations, a job a.n.a.lyst screening applicants for the United Hotel a.s.sociation, an industrial designer, an efficiency engineer, the Chairman of Amalgamated Union's Grievance Committee, t.i.tan's Superintendent of Cybernetics, a Secretary of Political Psychology, two Cabinet members, five Parliamentary Leaders, and scores of other Esper clients of s.p.a.celand at work and at play.

They filed through the Reservation Gate in a unified mood of holiday festivity and a.s.sorted gear. Those that had gotten word on the grapevine early enough were in st.u.r.dy 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 G.o.ddam bear!"

"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..."

"Pa.s.s '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."

"Pa.s.s 'em by, sir. That's Reich and Ha.s.sop."

"WHAT!"

"Don't make a fuss. Don't make anybody suspicious. Just pa.s.s '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 Ha.s.sop. 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 a.s.semble 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.

Ha.s.sop 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 Ha.s.sop. 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.

Powell lifted to his knees and crawled forward, his senses pinpointed on Reich's perception. He froze again as ALARM clanged in Reich's head. Reich leaped to his feet, bow ready, a featherless arrow at half-c.o.c.k, and peered intently into the darkness.

"What is it, Ben?" Ha.s.sop murmured.

"I don't know. Something."