. These images come into
my mind even though they have nothing to do with me."

Hoppy shook his head. "That's because you haven't had Ethical
Conditioning. We don't have this trouble with our other performers.
You just must remember that dreamvision is the most potent
communications medium ever devised. Be _careful_."

"I will," said Gavir.

* * * * *

On his next dreamcast Gavir sang the _Song of the Blood Feud_. He
pictured a Desert Man whose father had been killed by a drock.

The Desert Man ran over the red sand, and he found the drock. He did
not throw his knife. That would not have satisfied his hatred. He fell
upon the drock and stabbed and stabbed.

The Desert Man howled his hunting-cry over the body of his enemy, and
spat into its face.

And the fanged face of the drock turned into the square, battered face
of Jarvis Spurling. Gavir held the image in his mind for a long
moment.

When the dreamcast was over, a studio page ran up to Gavir. "Mr.
Spurling wants to see you at once, at his office."

"Let him come and find me," said Gavir. "Let us go, Sylvie."

They went to Lucifer Grotto, where Gavir's wealthiest admirers among
the Senile Delinquents were giving a party for him in the Pandemonium
Room. The only prominent person missing, as Sylvie remarked after
surveying the crowd, was the Hat Rat. They wondered about it, but no
one knew where he was.

Sheets of flame illuminated the wild features and strange garments of
over a hundred Century-Plus ladies and gentlemen. Gouts of flame
leaped from the walls to light antique-style cigarettes. Drinks were
refilled from nozzles of molded fire.

An hour passed from the time of Gavir's arrival.

Then Jarvis Spurling joined the party. There was a heavy frontier
sonic pistol strapped at his waist. A protesting Malcomb was behind
him.

Jarvis Spurling's square face was dark with anger. "You deliberately
put my face on that animal! You want to make the public hate me. I pay
your salary and keep you here on Earth, and this is what I get for it.
All right. A Bluie is a Bluie, and I'll treat you like a Bluie should
be treated." He unsnapped his holster and drew the square, heavy
pistol out and pointed it at Gavir.

Gavir stood up. His right hand plucked at his doublet.

"You're itching to go for that throwing knife," said Spurling. "Go on!
Take it out and get ready to throw it. I'll give you that much
chance. Let's make a game