As he drew his signature pictograph on the contract, Sylvie Davery sauntered in. She held a white tube between her painted lips. The end of the tube was glowing and giving off clouds of smoke. Hoppy Davery coughed and Sylvie winked at Gavir. Gavir straightened up, and she took a long look at his seven feet. "All finished, Blue Boy? Come on, let's go have a drink at Lucifer Grotto." Caution told Gavir to refuse. But before he could speak Spurling snapped, "Disgusting! An Earth woman and a Bluie! If you were on Mars, lady, we'd deport you so fast your tail would burn. And God help the Bluie!" Sylvie blew a cloud of smoke at Spurling. "You're not on Mars, Jack. You're back in civilization where we do what we damned well please." Spurling laughed. "I've heard about you Century-Plussers. You're all sick." "You can't claim any monopoly on mental health. Not with that concentration camp you run on Mars. Coming, Gavir?" Gavir grinned at Spurling. "The contract, I believe, does not cover my private life." Hoppy Davery said, "Sylvie, I don't think this is wise." Sylvie uttered a short, sharp obscenity, linked arms with Gavir, and strolled out. "You screwball Senile Delinquent," Spurling yelled after Sylvie, "you oughtta be locked up!" * * * * * Lucifer Grotto was in that same quarter in which Gavir had been attacked. Sylvie told him it was _the_ hangout for wealthier New York Century-Plussers. Gavir told her about the attack, and she laughed. "It won't happen again. You're a hero to the Senile Delinquents now. By the way, the big fellow with the broad-brimmed hat, he's one of the most prominent Senile Delinquents of our day. He's president of the biggest privately-owned space line, but he likes to call himself the Hat Rat. You must be one of the few people who ever got away from him alive." "He seemed happy to get away from me," said Gavir. An arrangement of force-planes and 3V projections made the front of Lucifer Grotto appear to be a curtain of flames. Gavir hung back, but Sylvie inserted a tiny gold pitchfork into a small aperture in the glowing, rippling surface. The flames swept aside, revealing a doorway. A bearded man in black tights escorted them through a luridly-lit bar to a private room. When they were alone, Sylvie dropped her cape to the floor, sat on the edge of a huge, pink divan, and smiled at Gavir. Gavir contemplated her. That she was over a hundred years old was a little frightening. But the skin of her face and her bare upper body was a warm color, and tautly filled. She had lashed out at Spurling, and he liked her for that. But in one way she was like Spurling. She didn't fit into the bland, non-violent world of Malcomb and Hoppy. He shook his head. He said, "Sylvie, why--well, why are you the way you are? Why--and how--have you broken away from Ethical Conditioning?"