This etext was produced from Worlds of If November1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.
The big man eased the piano off his back and stood looking at Groverzb.
"You ain't gonna like it here." He mopped his face. "Boy, will I ever beglad to get off this cockeyed planet."
Groverzb pushed at his spectacles, sniffed, and said, "Quite."
The big man said, "Ain't no native here over three feet tall. And theygot some crazy kind of communication. They don't talk."
Groverzb said, "Quiet."
"Uh?"
"Precisely why I am here. I," said Groverzb, sniffing again, "loatheconversation."
"Oh. Well." He left.
Alone, Groverzb surveyed his realm. The house was the shell of what hadformerly been a Little People apartment building. Ceilings, floors andwalls had been removed to form one large room. The tiny doors andwindows had been sealed, and a single window and door had been cut intothe shell for Groverzb's use. Crude, but serviceable.
Groverzb walked to the window and looked down the slope. Little Peoplebuildings dotted the landscape, and the people themselves scurriedsilently about. Yes, thought Groverzb, it would do nicely. He hadbrought an adequate food-tablet supply. He would finish, without thedistraction of voices, his beautiful concerto. He would return to Earthfamous and happy.
Armed with paper and pencils, he went to the piano, having decided toenlarge upon the theme in the second movement. His mind knew exactly howthe passage should run, and he swiftly covered the paper with sharp,angular notes. Then he triumphantly lifted his hands and began to playwhat he had written.
He jerked back from the keyboard, his hair on end, his teeth, on edge,his ears screaming with the mass of sounds he had produced. He looked athis hands, peered at the score, adjusted his spectacles and tried again.
I'm tired, he thought, recoiling in horror from the racket. A foodtablet and a nap will remedy the situation.
When he awoke, Groverzb walked to the window, refreshed. A violet glowhad replaced the harsh yellow light of day. At the foot of the slope,the Little People dashed to and fro, but no voice broke the peacefulquiet of the evening.
With a sigh of satisfaction, Groverzb went to the piano. Gently, hestruck the keys. Blatant, jumbled noise filled the room.
Breathing hard, Groverzb rose and gingerly lifted the spinet's lid. No,nothing amiss there. Good felts, free hammers, solid soundingboard—must be out of tune.
Groverzb closed the lid, sat down and struck a single note. A cleartone sang out. He moved chromatically up and down the scale. Definitelynot out of tune.
He shifted the score, glanced uneasily at the keys and began to play.Discord immediately pierced his eardrums.
He clapped his hands over his ears and leaped wildly from the pianobench. The trip, he decided frantically. It must have affected myhearing.
He flung himself from the house and down the slope. The Little Peoplescattered, staring. He charged into the administration building andclutched the lapels of a uniformed official.
"A doctor!" he gasped. "Now! This minute!"
The official raised his eyebrows and removed Groverzb's hands withdistaste.
"It's a little late in the day," he drawled, "but mayb