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certain large sense was his own.
    “We might even find ourselves turning a profit,” said Dame Isabel cheerfully. “I certainly do not plan to confine our performances to Rlaru. I have strong convictions regarding the universality of music, and Mr. Bickel’s description of the furry creatures listening to his record-player moved me deeply.”
    Roger started to speak, then thought better of it.
    “My ideas are long-range,” Dame Isabel went on. “We all recognize that the folk of the far planets often lack our musical perceptions; nevertheless any start we can make, any spark we can strike, may eventually lead to the most dramatic musical events: was it not Mr. Bickel himself who suggested that from just such people may come the powerful new musics of the future?”
    “I thought you considered Mr. Bickel’s opinions superficial,” said Roger wearily.
    “Everyone is entitled to his own point of view. Mr. Bickel speaks at least with the authority of wide research, whereas gentlemen like Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Seaboro have learned all they know by listening to each other.”
    Roger made a disgruntled sound. “I certainly wouldn’t put any faith in Adolph Gondar. What, after all, do you know of him?”
    “I know that he must cooperate with me or never touch a penny of his earnings. And while we are on the subject of earning, it is high time that you settled into some sort of career. Yesterday I was called upon to settle several of your accounts. I make you a liberal allowance and I find this extravagance inexplicable …”
    Roger finally was able to end the conversation. Glumly he pondered the future. He was more or less inured to Dame Isabel’s eccentricities, but this affair was more monumental, more thorough-going than mere eccentricity; it was — Roger dutifully expunged the word.
    What of his own position? Work. A job. Trifling remuneration for hours of his valuable time. It might become a matter of absolute necessity; Dame Isabel might well spend everything she owned on this most grotesquely expensive of caprices … Roger thought of Bernard Bickel. If anyone could dissuade her, it would be he. Roger called Bernard Bickel’s room at the Nomad Inn.
    Bickel took the call. He would be pleased to receive Roger, and there was no more convenient time than immediately.
    Roger rode an air-bus to the Nomad Inn. Bickel met him in the lobby, and suggested coffee in the nearby Star-farer Lounge.
    Once settled, with coffee and a tray of cakes, Bickel turned an inquiring eye upon Roger.
    “You probably know why I’ve come to see you,” said Roger.
    “My dear fellow, I haven’t the foggiest notion.”
    “You haven’t heard of my aunt’s new scheme?”
    Bickel shook his head. “I’ve been out of town. Something amusing, I hope?”
    “‘Amusing’.” Roger echoed the word bitterly. “She wants to take a grand opera company to this planet Rlaru. She’ll spend millions without batting an eye.”
    Bickel listened with an occasional nod of the head, a whimsical pucker of the mouth. “Your aunt exemplifies a type which sadly is almost extinct: the affluent amateur, the wealthy eccentric. An impressive woman — though I can’t share her faith in Captain Gondar.”
    “It’s appalling!” declared Roger. “He’s talked her into a project which will cost an enormous amount of money! She wants to visit other worlds along the way — you yourself have influenced her, with your description of the Bidrachate Dendicaps listening to music from your recorder.”
    Bernard Bickel laughed incredulously. “But it’s all so ridiculous! Those particular creatures were merely wondering how I had been able to confine so many insects — which locally produce loud shrill noises — into so small a box. Your aunt’s concept — excuse me if I speak frankly — is idiotic. The Dendicaps wouldn’t know a concerto from a punch in the nose.”
    Roger laughed shakily. “She’s been strongly influenced by your remarks. I wonder —