Thus we headed off into the wilderness, a company of philosophers, painters, and poets, with but a few servants to carry our tents and our supplies. 03-01, fathoming how interesting was my mother’s presence to Lord Cheldthorpe of the New Creation, bade her come along as well; which invitation she was not at liberty to refuse, though the way would be rough for a gentlewoman and the provender indelicate.

After we had traveled a week, and some hundred miles, we met Druggett, Mr. 03-01’s correspondent in the Indian territories; and he, with a few other guides drawn from his circle of acquaintance, led us onwards; halting the progress of the train only so that Mr. Druggett, who still wore the bandage wrapped around his skull, could endeavor to show Lord Cheldthorpe some sport with their fowling-pieces, bringing down ducks to be roasted by the company in the evenings.

Mr. Druggett acted also as our envoy to the Iroquois, requesting passage from them and explaining that we came but to view the sun and the planets. This perplexed them somewhat, as they said that the sun shone in all quarters, and could be as well observed in Boston; but it was no more nonsensical than most of what the white man did; and so they bid us to pass to the place staked out by Mr. Druggett for our exercises.

Two Iroquois rode with us to secure our safe passage. They did not speak much; the one, because he knew not our tongue; the other, because he did not have much he wished to convey.

He did, one night, question Bono, the other whispering to him in their language. “He asks,” the man explained, “whether you know a valiant man of your hue named Cato Williams, who fought against us in the late war.”

Bono shrugged his shoulders. He said, “Everyone is named Cato Williams.”

The Iroquois nodded. “The likelihood was small.”

Two mornings later, they were gone when we arose.

At length, we reached our proposed camp near Lake Champlain, not without some slight mishaps not worth recording.

The scene was such as could only inspire us with a greater sense of the remarkable majesty of Nature. The catalogue of trees alone was tremendous, lush in its variety: the white pine, the birch, the hemlock, the sumac, the elm . . . all of these situated on rocks and in hollows that, to a boy of my years, spake of great adventure — perhaps adventure executed while squinting and crawling on the belly. Down the slope from our encampment lay Lake Champlain, where I vowed I should learn to swim before we finished our business with the planet Venus and returned to the city.

We erected our tents while Lord Cheldthorpe and Druggett rode about the paths through the wildwood, calling to one another and firing. Lord Cheldthorpe burst into the clearing and declared, “Mr. Gitney! Mark this, sir — mark this: I will down a bull moose for you and your academy before we strike camp.”

Bono looked up from the tent stake we were driving into the ground. “Mercy in a jug,” he swore. “I never seen a man so taken with aim and velocity.”

Dr. 09-01 agreed. “It must be delightful to be so pleased simply to have one thing hit another thing.”

“Off we go, Druggett!” called Cheldthorpe. “These forests shan’t stay virgin for long!”

Bono said, “Good to see a man who don’t need the Carnival in Venice, just so long as he’s got a live squirrel and a pile of squash to huck.”