"I shall forgive this remark of yours," said Bertlef,

"because I want to return to our friends problem. Aren't you really the one who makes the decisions on that committee, and those hideous females do whatever you say:

"I'm certainly the one who decides, but this doesn't mean I want to keep on doing it. It pays nothing. Tell me, Maestro, how much are you paid, for example, for one concert?"

The amount mentioned by Klima interested Dr. Skreta: "I often think I could supplement my income by making music. I'm not a bad drummer."

"You're a drummer?" asked Klima, showing forced interest.

"Yes," said Dr. Skreta. "We have a piano and a set of drums in the Hall of the People. I play the drums in my free moments."

"That's wonderful!" exclaimed the trumpeter, pleased by the opportunity to flatter the physician.

"But I don't have any partners to have a real band with. There's only the pharmacist, who plays the piano fairly well. We've tried out some things together a few times." He broke off and seemed to be thinking. "Listen! When Ruzena appears before the committee…"

Klima gave a deep sigh. "If she would only come-"

Dr. Skreta gestured impatiently: "She'll be glad to come, just like all the others. But the committee requires the father to appear too; you'll have to be there with her. And to make the trip here worthwhile, you might arrive the day before and give a concert that evening. Trumpet, piano, drums. Tres faciunt

orchestrum. With your name on the posters, we'll fill the hall. What do you say?"

Klima was always excessively punctilious about the technical quality of his concerts, and two days earlier the physician's proposal would have seemed completely insane to him. But now he was only interested in a particular nurse's womb, and he responded to the physician's question with polite enthusiasm: "That would be splendid!"