hesitation rapped sharply four times on the office door. In an instant a tall man appeared, wearing a white coat and with eyeglasses on his big nose. "Just a moment, please," he said to the women sitting in the waiting room, and then he led the two men into the corridor and up the stairs to his apartment on the floor above.

"How are you, Maestro?" he said, addressing the trumpeter when all three were seated. "When are you going to give another concert here?"

"Never again in my lifetime," answered Klima, "because this spa jinxed me."

Bertlef explained to Dr. Skreta what had happened to the trumpeter, and then Klima added: "I want to ask for your help. First, I want to know if she's really pregnant. Maybe she's just late. Or it's all an act. That's already happened to me once. That one was a blonde too."

"Never start anything with a blonde," said Dr. Skreta.

"Yes," Klima agreed, "blondes are my downfall. Doctor, it was horrible that time. I had her examined by a physician. But at the beginning of a pregnancy you can't tell anything for sure. So I insisted they do the mouse test. The one where they inject urine into a mouse and if the mouse's ovaries swell up…"

"… the lady is pregnant," Dr. Skreta finished.

"She was carrying her morning urine in a little bottle, I was with her, and right in front of the clinic she dropped the little bottle on the sidewalk. I pounced on

those bits of glass trying to save at least a few drops! Seeing me, you'd have sworn I'd dropped the Holy Grail. She did it on purpose, broke the little bottle, because she knew she wasn't pregnant and she wanted to make my ordeal last as long as possible."

"Typical blonde behavior," Dr. Skreta said, unsurprised.

"Do you think there is a difference between blondes and brunettes?" asked Bertlef, visibly skeptical about Dr. Skreta's experience with women.