ly, out of Gavir's reach. Father James told Gavir
that the head of MDC himself had ordered the killing, because Gavir's
father had tried to organize resistance to the Corporation. Mars was
where the magic powers of the Earthmen and the helplessness of the
Martian tribes would always protect the head of MDC from Gavir's
vengeance.

Back to that world of hopeless fear and hatred? _I never want to go
back to Mars! I want to stay here!_

But that wasn't what he was supposed to think. Quickly he said, "I
will be happy to return to my people."

A movement caught his eye. The producer, reclining on a divan in a far
corner of the small studio, was making some kind of signal by beating
his fist against his forehead.

"Well, enough of that!" the moderator said briskly. "How about singing
one of your tribal songs for us?"

Gavir said, "I will sing the _Song of Going to Hunt_." He heaved
himself up from the divan, and, feet planted wide apart, threw back
his head and began to howl.

He was considered a poor singer in his tribe, and he was not surprised
that Malcomb and the moderator winced. But Malcomb had told him that
it wouldn't matter. The dreamees receiving the dreamcast would hear
the song as it _should_ sound, as Gavir heard it in his mind.
Everything that Gavir saw and heard and felt in his mind, the dreamees
could see and hear and feel....

* * * * *

It was cold, bitter cold, on the plain. The hunter stood at the edge
of the camp as the shriveled Martian sun struck the tops of the Shakam
hills. The hunter hefted the long, balanced narvoon, the throwing
knife, in his hand. He had faith in the knife, and in his skill with
it.

The hunter filled his lungs, the cold air reaching deep into his
chest. He shouted out his throat-bursting hunting cry. He began to run
across the plain.

Crouching behind crumbling red rocks, racing over flat expanses of
orange sand, the hunter sought traces of the seegee, the great slow
desert beast whose body provided his tribe with all the essentials of
existence. At last he saw tracks. He mounted a dune. Out on the plain
before him a great brown seegee lumbered patiently, unaware of its
danger.

The hunter was about to strike out after it, when a dark form leaped
at him.

The hunter saw it out of the corner of his eye at the last moment. His
startled sidestep saved him from the neck-breaking snap of the great
jaws.

The drock's long body was armo