Breathing hard, Groverzb rose and gingerly lifted the spinet's lid. No, nothing amiss there. Good felts, free hammers, solid sounding board—must be out of tune.
Groverzb closed the lid, sat down and struck a single note. A clear tone sang out. He moved chromatically up and down the scale. Definitely not 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 piano bench. The trip, he decided frantically. It must have affected my hearing.
He flung himself from the house and down the slope. The Little People scattered, staring. He charged into the administration building and clutched the lapels of a uniformed official.
"A doctor!" he gasped. "Now! This minute!"
The official raised his eyebrows and removed Groverzb's hands with distaste.
"It's a little late in the day," he drawled, "but maybe the doc up on the top floor—"
Groverzb flew up the stairs and into the doctor's office. The doctor's face lit up.
"A patient!" he exclaimed. "Capital! What seems to be the trouble? Food poisoning? Shouldn't eat the food here. Garbage. Appendix? Heart attack?"