"Stop talking, you idiot, it's my ears!"
Obviously disappointed, the doctor nevertheless poked and peered at Groverzb's ears.
"No," he said finally. "A trifle big, yes. But nothing wrong with them."
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely. A pity. I'm getting a bit rusty."
With a groan, Groverzb staggered out of the building, back through town, and up the slope to his house. Seating himself firmly on the bench he began to play.
He shuddered. The noise was abominable.
Suddenly his door burst open and a crowd of Little People rushed in. They pulled him off the bench and slapped angrily at his hands. Then, with cutters, they attacked the piano.
"Here, stop that!" Groverzb screeched. "What do you think you're doing?"
The Little People pushed and dragged him out of the house, down the slope, through the town and into the launching bowl at the space-strip. The launching agent took one look and yelled, "Get the interpreter! On the double!"