Hesitantly, under the unblinking disapproval of the Council, George materialized. As the Council watched, a duplicate of Marc Pillsworth's long, lean body, made vague by misted robes, rose solidly out of the moiling vapors. It grew to full stature, rounded out at the shoulders, extended a neck, then stopped short of the head. There was an expectant pause, but nothing further developed. "The rotter's ashamed to face us," the First Head observed sourly. "Little wonder," the Third Head muttered. "After the way he's blotted the haunting profession, he hasn't got a leg to stand on." "George Pillsworth," the Supreme Head intoned with exasperation, "spiritual projection of the mortal entity, Marc Pillsworth, approach the Council. And put on your head, you fool." George stirred, and his head, working from the chin upward, materialized, revealing the face of Marc Pillsworth. All in all, as faces go, Marc's--and consequently also George's--hit very close to average. It was a nice face, a pleasant face, for all its lack of distinction. On George, therefore, it was a misleading face. With its lean plainness, its serious grey eyes and its shock of sandy hair, it failed utterly to express even a whit of George's unprincipled temperament. "Is that better, sir?" George asked, edging warily forward. "Hardly that," the Supreme Head groused. "The less of you the better. However it helps us somewhat to get a clue to the inner festerings of that depraved mind of yours." He gazed at George for a long, reflective moment, then made a sad, clucking sound. "I simply cannot imagine what Marcus Pillsworth must have thought when he discovered that his spiritual entity was a tacky, ebony-hearted, feather-headed wretch like you. Why aren't you more like your mortal source?" George shrugged sheepishly. "I guess I'm just no damn good," he murmured. "You flatter yourself," the Supreme Head said. "You're much worse than no damn good. You're simply awful. I wonder if Limbo will ever live you down." "I hope so, sir," George said contritely. "Nevertheless," the Supreme Head went on, "much as I loathe it, I suppose we must get on with it. I suppose you know why you've been summoned?" George nodded dimly. "They reported me for teaching the Moaning Chorus to syncopate." "What!" the Supreme Head gasped. "You did _what_?" * * * * * George looked up, afrighted; he'd given himself away again with no need. "Yes, sir," he sighed resignedly, "I thought that if we got up a good hot act we might be able to wangle a few guest shots with the Celestial Choir. Actually, we've worked out a really sock arrangement of the _Wham Bam Blues_. I'm sure that if you heard it...." "No!" the Supreme Head roared. "You _couldn't_! Of all the unmitigated...!" He stopped and waited for his spleen to subside. "George Pillsworth," he said, "you are insufferable." "I suppose so, sir," George said. "However my intentions...." "Blast your intentions!"