* * *
"I don't smell any dinner cooking," said Frank as he entered the house with Cindy.
The two had spent a long but exhilarating day at the labs at the University and they were ready for a good meal.
"Do you think Mom forgot?" asked Cindy.
"She's capable of forgetting anything."
"So are you," said Cindy as gently as she could say it and still be blunt.
"I admit it."
"No music," said Cindy.
"Everybody quiet as mice," said Frank. "Either that, or nobody's here. DIANE!" No Answer. "PETER!" No answer. "TIMMY!" Still no answer.
"Dad!" Cindy exclaimed in a strange voice.
For a second it appeared she was fainting at the entrance to the music room. Frank ran to catch her and he almost fainted himself. Instead of the music room, a swamp came right up to the doorway. The air was chilly and the sky gray.
"Where is the rest of our house?" Frank asked.
"I don't think we want to know," said Cindy.
"The whole room is gone!" Frank cried. "The piano is gone! Peter's cello is gone! And the rest of my family is gone!"
"The computer room still seems to be here," said Cindy.
"Well, let's celebrate and have a great big party."
"It might be worth checking out the computer in case it gives us clues."
"Why should the computer give us clues?" asked Frank.
"Well, it came up with a file with information that Timmy and Michael found useful."
"Yea, and I suppose it lured them into that never-never land."
"If it did, we would be wise to find out what we can about it."
Cindy sat down at the computer and Frank up a chair close behind her. When Cindy dissolved Tim's screen saver, a strange menu floated in the middle of the screen above the normal desktop. It read:
CASTLE SEARCH
TAVERN SEARCH
WHALE SEARCH
"That's a big help," said Frank.
"It's a bigger help than nothing," said Cindy. "It's definitely worth trying."
"I suppose the whale search is the least likely. And I don't think Tim would go to a tavern."
"He might. The page the computer sent him yesterday said something about Tim playing at a tavern. It might be our best bet. Unless the whale button is the best bet because it does seem the least likely."
"Do you mean to tell me that fairly tale logic says that the least likely alternative is probably themost likely?" asked Frank.
"About ninety-percent of the time," Cindy answered.
"All right, try the whale button."
Cindy clicked on that button and got a screen listing whales, apparently by name, with a hyperlink under each name.
"Well, which is which? How can you tell which is even the least likely?" asked Frank.
"I like the name Cool Blues,'" said Cindy. "I think it's the most likely."
"You said----"
"In Fairy Tale logic, a whale with a jazzy name is the most apt to get involved with two jazz musicians."
"All right."
Cindy clicked on the hyperlink for "Cool Blues." A large, green eye filled the screen. Then the eye receded, revealing the face of a large water animal that indeed looked like a whale.
"Yes!" cried Cindy, once she saw Tim and Michael slipping and sliding on the raft carried by the whale. Cool Blues was gliding along a channel lined with castle towers.
"It looks like Venice," Frank remarked.
"Watch that piano!" cried Cindy.
As if he could hear his sister, Tim lunged after the piano, but it was a hippopotagator that kept it from falling into the water.
"Is it part of fairy tale logic for monsters like that to be helpful creatures rather than be the type to eat up human beings?" asked Frank.
"Sometimes," Cindy replied.
Cool Blues turned a corner and came up against a barrier that looked like a lock on a river. At this barrier, there was a small booth, and sitting in the booth was an officer wearing a dripping uniform that could have made out of seaweed. The officer stepped out on a ledge in front of the booth to meet with Tim and Michael.
"Name, rank, and cereal number," the officer demanded of the two boys.
"Timothy Alban Schubert," said Tim. "Rank, lowest kid on family totem pole. I usually have two bowls of granola every morning."
The officer grabbed a thick volume of papers from inside the booth, leafed furiously through them and finally nodded.
"Information acceptable," he announced, the looked at Michael.
"Michael Cuthbert Mercer. Oldest and youngest child of Mercer family. One or two bowls of cereal a week, at the most. I like toast and pop tarts better."
Tim gave Michael a strange look while the officer again leafed through his sheaf of papers. In the course of his research, several pieces of paper slipped from his hands and landed in the water where the hippopotagators promptly ate them up.
"Now, look what you made me do!" cried the officer.
Michael hung his head.
"I don't think it's Michael's fault," Tim insisted.
"But it is Michael Cuthbert Mercer's fault," said the officer. "If he hadn't come along, I wouldn't have had to hold my papers where I could lose them in the event of an accident. And looking through my papers to check the information Michael Cuthbert Mercer required much flipping around among my papers, which greatly increased the chances of such an accident occurring, which in fact it did, which transforms the probability of such an accident occurring to one hundred percent."
"That is the fault of the person who arranged the papers to make it hard to find the information you were looking for," said Tim.
Meanwhile, Michael continued to keep his head down.
"Are you implying that I am the least bit deficient in my duties?" the officer asked sharply.
"Timmy, try changing the level of the conversation," Cindy coached her brother when she saw his mouth opening for what had to be a typical retort on his part.
Tim hesitated before giving his response.
"The hippopotagators ate the papers when they could have picked them up in their teeth and given them back to you. It is your job to let us through into the Castle. If you needed those papers to let us in, the hippopotagators would have saved them. That means you don't need the papers you lost to do your duty. All you have to do is let us in and there will be nothing wrong with the way you did your duty."
The officer scratched his head.
"Thank you for helping me understand and perform my duty to all to whom I am dutifully committed to dutiful duty."
With that, the officer stepped back into the booth with his remaining papers and pulled a switch. The barrier opened and the whale passed through with the convoy of hippopotagators following.
"Bravo!" cried Cindy.
"Timmy sure is coming along," said Frank with admiration.
"Why did you let that guy blame you for what he did?" Tim asked Michael.
Michael shrugged.
"I get blamed for everything."
"Like what?"
"My father blames me every time he gets fired."
"How come?"
"I don't know. He says I make him drink."
"That doesn't make sense," said Tim.
"What do you mean?"
"Timmy, you're up against a brick wall," Cindy told him. "You'll have to convince him later some other way."
"I'll tell you what I mean later," said Tim. "Right now, this whole journey doesn't make sense, but it's interesting. I didn't know your middle name was Cuthbert."
"I didn't tell you."
"Do you know how you got that name?"
"No."
"You never asked?"
"Why should I?"
By this time the raft had entered the Castle where the corridors consisted of waterways. Floodlights from the cavernous ceiling lit the way. Along the canal, there were several doors with a dock in front of each one.
"I wonder if we should knock on a door and get directions," said Michael.
"My guess is that this whale will stop at a door if we're supposed to do that."
As if taking Tim's words for a cue, Cool Blues turned a corner and stopped at the second door down the canal. The whale gently brought up against the dock so that it was easy for one of the boys to reach the door and knock.
"Do you dare me?" asked Tim.
"No. But I'll stick with you if you knock."
"Thanks."
Tim carefully stepped up onto the dock and knocked on the door. The door slid open to reveal a woman surrounded by a switchboard made up with keyboards, dials, and blinking lights.
"Information," said the woman in a nasal voice.
Tim and Michael looked at each other, obviously trying to decide what to ask for.
"Information can give no information if Information does not know what information is being requested," said the operator.
"Who is in charge of the Castle?" asked Michael.
"That information is not available. Please ask for alternative information and Information will inform you."
"I don't know what to suggest this time," said Cindy.
"Are you supposed to know everything in fairy tale logic?" her father asked.
"Probably not. Timmy's pretty good, too."
"Where is the rest of the Castlewhale Jazz Quintet?" asked Tim.
The operator whirled around, pushing buttons and punching keys. A few seconds later, a loud ring echoed off the walls of the canal. When the ringing stopped, a voice came over a loudspeaker:
"Timothy Alban Schubert and Michael Cuthbert Mercer are at the Information booth. Marcia Monica Manningsworth and Deborah Dora Delvecchio are at checkpoint Patrick. Cuthbert Claude Hammond deTroy is in the engulfed realm of subterranean imagination."
"Oh," said Michael.
"Where is Checkpoint Patrick?" asked Tim.
"Information can tell you that you can reach Checkpoint Patrick by taking a left two doors down, a right three doors down from that, another right four doors down, take the waterfall down to the next level, go straight for five doors and turn left, turn right after three doors, another right after seven doors and you will reach Checkpoint Patrick."
"Can you repeat that?" asked Tim.
"Information can inform only once. Cool Blues has a good memory and does not need to hear the information a second time in order to be informed."
"Who's that?" asked Michael.
"Information does not give information about that which is under the nose of the one being informed."
"That's the whale you're riding on, Timmy," said Cindy.
"Must be the whale we're riding on," said Tim. "That makes sense. What about Cuthbert? Where is this subterranean imagination that guy talked about over the loudspeaker?"
"Information does not give information about that which is under the nose of the one being informed."
"That doesn't make sense," said Tim. "Is there anything else you can say?"
"Information can not inform you yet another time that Information does not give information about that which is under the nose of the one being informed. Have a nice day."
The door slid shut, leaving Michael and Tim to continue their journey as best they could.
"I wish Tim had known to ask about Peter and Mother," said Cindy.
"Me too," said Frank. "I don't know if I want them to be in that place or not."
"Me neither."
On the computer screen, Cool Blues swam away from the information booth and made one turn after another, apparently following the operator's instructions. Cindy and Frank winced when the whale dove over the waterfall they were told about, but the whale kept the raft balanced and, with the help of the hippopotagators, Peter's cello and the piano were saved once again from a drenching. Along the wall of this canal, black-and-white old time films were being shown against the wall. In most of the frames, a child was receiving a piano lesson while piano ragtime music sounded over hidden loudspeakers. It seemed that most of the teachers were berating their young pupils on some way. In one frame, there was the caption "You're still not practicing enough!"
"There's my father!" Michael cried, pointing to one of the frames. "I recognize him from his pictures!"
In the frame Michael pointed to, a boy was seated at an upright piano while a man wearing spectacles stood over him. The boy played hard at the piano, sweating with almost every movement he made at the keyboard. Then the caption came on: "You still don't have the right touch for jazz." The frustrated boy said something, followed by the caption: "Do I have the right touch for anything?" The teacher spoke followed by the caption: "No. You're not suited for anything."
"That's what my Dad says to me every time I play my sax," said Michael.
"Really?"
"Almost word for word."
"You know, I'll bet that was Cuthbert giving your Dad-as-a-boy his piano lesson."
"You know, I think you're right."
"So our looking for Cuthbert has to do with looking for your father after all."
"Guess so."
"Think you dad named you after him?"
"Maybe. He never talked about him as far as I can remember."
"I don't blame him if that film is any indication of how your dad was treated by him," said Tim. "I wonder why he named you after him, though."
"Maybe he was sober for once and didn't know what he was doing when I was born."
Tim looked concerned but frustrated that he didn't know what else to say to his friend to make him feel better. The two boys listened to the music that the Cuthbert DeTroy was playing. It sounded mostly, but not entirely, like jazz.
"Michael seems to be having a rough time," Frank remarked. "No wonder he started spending all his time here as soon as Tim made friends with him."
"And Timmy really cares about that," added Cindy.
Cool Blues continued down the canal where other black-and-white films were showing while the same ragtime music accompanied the action. The films , too, depicted piano lessons. In the frame the raft was passing, a spectacled boy was playing the piano for a bearded teacher.
"That's Cuthbert!" Michael cried.
"I wonder if he's getting from his teacher what he gave your father as a boy," said Tim.
"After the teacher spoke vehemently to the boy, the caption read: "You must not throw away your career for jazz." The boy said something with tears in his eyes and then the caption read: "What is wrong with jazz?" The teacher replied to the caption: "Jazz is inferior music, fit only for nightclubs and the barnyard." The boy jumped up and shouted at the music teacher: "Jazz is what I'm good at. Why shouldn't I play in the combo?" The teacher yelled back at the student and the caption read: "If you must go for jazz, at least play and compose symphonic jazz. Playing in a combo will wreck your career." At which point the boy threw his music down on the floor and the teacher chased him about the room with the awkward speeded-up movement of early movies.
"I think that was Cuthbert who was getting that piano lesson," said Tim.
"You might be right," said Michael.
Then Cool Blues moved on and made another turn. Down this canal, there were yet more movie screens. This time, they were all the same. A young man wearing spectacles was performing at the piano on stage.
"This is kind of cool, what he's playing," said Tim. "Not stuffy like the stuff Mom likes."
"Yea," said Michael. "My father still plays bits and pieces like that, when he's drunk. Then he goes on and on about what an awful player he is."
The camera also took in shots of members of the audience listening to the young man on stage.
"I think that's my mother!" cried Tim as he pointed to a young woman scribbling furiously in a notebook while she listened.
"We need Mother to tell us what this music is that guy is playing," said Cindy.
"Sounds like it could be Gershwin, but even I know pretty much all his works. Did that critic in the audience look to you like Mother?"
"Yea. I wonder what she has to do with all this."
"I'll bet a review of hers has a lot to do with this," said Frank. "Knowing her has been enough to make me afraid of being a musician for fear of what would be said about me in a review."
Cool Blues turned the next corner and proceeded past a number of glittering storefronts on the water. The telephone rang in the Schuberts house. Frank answered it.
"Hello."
"This is Don Mercer calling. When is my son Michael Mercer coming home?"
Don was slurring his words pretty badly.
:I don't know," Frank replied. "Do you want him home for anything?"
"It's about time he honored his father by coming home and showing me a little interest and respect. Tell him to come home on the double."
"I'll tell him that when I see him."
"When you see him? Don't you know where he is?"
"Actually, I don't. He and Timmy are both missing."
"Tell him to stop being missing and come home on the double!"
Don slammed down the phone.
"That was Michael's father," said Frank with distaste.
"I could hear him from here," said Cindy. "Michael had better stay where he is for now."
When Cool Blues turned the next corner, the boys were greeted by a paper boy who was waving a wad of newspapers in the air.
"Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Pick out your newspaper and read all about it!"
"What's this all about?" asked Tim.
"Pick your newspaper and read all about it," said the boy.
The boy fanned out the newspapers. One had the headline: "EXCITING DEBUT OF YOUNG ARTIST," another "DEBUT FALLS WITH A THUD!" and another: "GOOD BEGINNING OF POTENTIAL TALENT."
"The articles are--all written by Diane Meckleberg," said Tim. "That's my Mom before she got married. May we sample these?"
"Sample these and read all about it," said the paper boy as the thrust the papers into Tim's face.
The boys each took a couple of papers and glanced at them.
"This paper sure is insulting," said Michael, "it says: 'DeTroy constantly tried to make a blues tune sound like a sonata tune. He succeeded as well as a porcupine succeeds at galloping across the plains. His playing was as fluent as a lumpy dried-up river bed and as coherent as ham in a cherry pie.'"
"Good God!" cried Frank. "I remember Diane writing that during college!"
"Don't pick that one, Timmy!" Cindy urged.
"That might be funny," said Tim, "but it isn't nice when people say things like that to you. We'd better pick one of the others."
"It's the kind of stuff my Dad would say if he was bright enough to think of it," said Michael.
"I doubt if it was as great as this first paper said," said Tim. "Maybe we should choose this one that says it is a good beginning."
"It says," Michael read, "'although there are awkward moments in the music composed and performed by Cuthbert DeTroy, there are also a number of interesting musical ideas that made the music fascinating in spite of its flaws. The overall effect was an exciting performance. DeTroy has made a good beginning and we can all hope that he will continue to grow into a fine musician and composer.'"
"I don't know how to be a good music critic," said Tim "but this review makes some sense. I think if it was written about me, I'd be encouraged and would keep trying."
"Me too," said Michael.
"We'll take this paper," said Tim to the paperboy, "but I don't have any money with me."
"Me neither," said the paper boy. "Just use this paper as your ticket at the checkpoint and it will pay for itself. Have a nice day."
"Thanks," said Tim.
"Good for you," said Cindy. "You're getting to be a nicer kid than I thought."
"Funny how hard it is to appreciate people in your own family," said Frank.
As soon as Tim had the newspaper securely in his hand, Cool Blues pushed off and continued along the canal. When the whale turned the next corner, he arrived at another checkpoint blocked by a barrier.
"There are the girls!" said Michael, pointing over the barrier.
"Peter! Mother!" cried Tim, "What are you doing here?"
"We could ask the same question of you," said Peter. "Hey! You've got my cello."
"The hippopotagators saved it from going overboard several times," said Tim.
"Then I'll never shoot another hippo--whatever it is--as long as I live," said Peter.
"We're stuck here," said Deborah. "We don't have the ticket they want. Can you help us out?"
"It depends on what ticket you need to get through," said Tim.
"Tickets, please," said a sour-looking woman at the booth, who was wearing the same seaweed uniform as did the officer Tim and Michael encountered.
"What tickets do you need?" asked Michael.
"She asked for a concert review of this concert by Cuthbert DeTroy that I had to listen to years ago, back in college," said Diane. "Then I had to listen to it all over again in this place."
"Me too," said Tim, "only it was the first time for me."
"Then this paperboy offered me several versions of the review," Diane continued. "One was the review I wrote and the others were the reviews I didn't write."
"You didn't choose the review you wrote before, did you?" asked Tim.
"Tickets, please," said the officer in her deadpan voice.
"Of course I chose the review I wrote. Why choose one I didn'twrite?"
"Oh, Mother," Cindy groaned.
"She was so proud of her invective at the time," said Frank.
"What's so good about the review you did write, except the funny insults that aren't so funny?" asked Tim.
"Musicians should take their lumps," said Diane.
"But there were some good points to his music," Peter interjected. "You could have written of the good stuff along with the bad stuff and tried to encourage him."
"Mom!" Tim called out. "After Michael and I listened to the concert, or parts of it, we ran into a paperboy too, and we had to choose the review we wanted. I chose this one that says what Peter just said. Maybe this will get you in."
"Does that mean I'll have the dubious privilege of listening to Cuthbert DeTroy all over again?" asked Diane.
"This is so we can get home and Michael can have a happier family!" Tim yelled.
"What does Michael have to do with this?" asked Diane.
"Tickets, please," said the guard.
"Cuthbert DeTroy was his music teacher."
"I don't get it," said Diane, her arms folded.
"Mother!" Cindy yelled. "Just be reasonable and listen to Timmy for once in your life!"
"You know, it's hard to listen to your youngest," said Frank.
"And look at the trouble that's brought us," said Cindy.
"Mom, you don't have to get it," said Peter, "you just have tocooperate. Timmy knows what he's doing in a place like this more than you do, so listento him."
Tim didn't wait for his mother to make up her mind. He carefully stepped out on the head of Cool Blues, stretched his arm down to the booth and gave the officer the newspaper edition he and Michael had chosen.
"Ticket accepted," said the officer. "You may proceed."
Everybody cheered but Diane, but at least she did not look overly angry. The barrier opened and Peter and Deborah steered the kayak through and up alongside the whale with the raft on his back.
"Cool Blues!" cried Marcia and Deborah in chorus.
"You know him?" asked Tim.
"He's our favorite whale!" Marcia answered. "They sent you the very best one."
"He's done a good job of getting us here," said Michael.
"Now, all we need is Cuthbert and we have the whole band," said Deborah.
"But Cuthbert is still the hardest one to get," complained Marcia.
"We asked about him at Information," said Tim, "but the operator said that Information could not give us that information."
"Typical," said Deborah. "Information never tells you what you most want to know."
"They gave us directions for finding you," said Tim. "Good thing Cool Blues could remember everything she said."
"Usually, only whales and dolphins can remember all the directions you get from Information," said Marcia.
"Are you taking good care of that piano?" asked Diane.
"Yea," Tim answered. "It hasn't fallen in the water even once. Thanks to the hippopotagators."
Diane looked askance at all the hippopotagators swimming around the kayak and the whale.
"I suppose you're expecting me to promise not to shoot any of those creatures, either?"
"Yes," said Tim.
"So what do we do now?" asked Michael. "Look for Cuthbert?"
"Where can we look?" asked Tim.
Meanwhile, Cool Blues turned around as carefully as he could. He still almost swamped the kayak, but the girls kept it afloat.
"I suggest we let Cool Blues go where he thinks we should go and we follow," said Deborah.
"Fine with me," said Tim.
"Should we practice our music while we're at it?" asked Marcia.
"As long as you don't write any reviews about me," Diane replied.
"Promise," said Tim.
"I think it will be better if we all get up on the raft for this," Peter suggested.
"Good idea," said Deborah.
"This promises to be quite a musical treat," Frank muttered.
"Don't sell these kids short," Cindy admonished her father. "Ever since Tim got interested in that jazz violinist, he's really been working at his own violin. I think he may have some talent after all."
"Why do we have so much trouble believing in Tim?" asked Frank.
"Beats me, but let's give ourselves some practice, okay?"
"Roger and out," Frank replied.
By this time, everybody was up on the raft and ready to make some music. Deborah began by playing a figure on the double bass. Marcia added a drum pattern. Before long, everybody was playing something. Diane, however, not well-versed in jazz had to make do with bits of sonatas by Shostakovich and Schnittke. The musical effect was not working out and the music had petered out by the time Cool Blues had swum into such a cavernous region of the castle that it appeared to be an underground sea. An ornate ceiling, lit by distant flood lights, was barely visible high above them.
"Sorry, that piano part just doesn't work," said Marcia.
"I thought I wasn't going to get reviewed for this," said Diane.
"I'm not writing a review," said Marcia, "I'm just telling you that your piano playing isn't right."
"It doesn't fit in with the rest of the combo," added Deborah.
"I never said I was suited for jazz," said Diane.
"And you're right, you aren't" said Marcia.
Diane folded her arms in anger.
"If you're going to speak like that, I won't play anymore. You can just play your jazz without me."
"Oh, Mother!" said Cindy.
"She really is sensitive to criticism," said Frank. "Especially for a critic."
"Now look, Mom," said Tim. "Marcia and Deborah are being nicer to you than you were to Cuthbert. So the least you can do is try your best and we'll try not to be too mean about the results."
"Why don't you try some Gershwin?" Peter suggested. "I'll bet you can work with that."
"Well, I won't be too hopelessly lost playing Gershwin," said Diane.
With that, Diane started in with I've got Plenty of Nothing and everybody else joined in. This time the group sounded much better, inspiring Tim and Michael to soar up above the rest of the ensemble.
"I didn't think Tim had this in him," said Frank.
"Surprise!" Cindy responded.
"What's that out in the water?" asked Frank as he pointed to something floating some distance from the whale and the raft.
"For crying out loud!" Cindy exclaimed, "I think it might be a survivor of a shipwreck, or something."
Deborah was the first in the ensemble to drop out when she saw the floating object. The sudden absence of the bass had the others looking around to see what the trouble was. The music fell apart amidst cries of concern when it became clear that a man was floating towards them in a small life boat with hippopotagators swimming all around him.
"Come on up!" Tim called from the raft.
"On top of that whale? After all I've been through? And with these crocodiles ready to eat me up?"
"They won't eat you," said Tim, "I'll bet they pushed you all this way so we could pull you up to the raft.
Peter, with the help of Deborah, climbed down from the whale and pulled the helpless man up and laid him out on the raft. Marcia swooped down on him, loosened the collar of his shirt, checked his pulse and fussed over him.
"We don't have many of the things we need to really take care of you," said Marcia, "but we'll do the best we can."
"I think it's that music teacher we saw on the film," Cindy commented.
"You may be right," said Frank, "now that you mention it."
"I must say," the man spluttered, "that you are better rescuers than you are musicians."
"Thanks a heap," said Tim.
"Shipwrecked people can't be choosey about the musicianship of those who rescue them," said Marcia.
"You sound just like Mr. Weathermoon, my piano teacher," said Diane. "Come to think of it, you look like him, too."
"That's because I am Nehemiah Weathermoon. And you look like Diane Meckleberg. Hardly a prize pupil as I recall."
"You always were so encouraging," said Diane bitterly.
"Then you're Cuthbert DeTroy's teacher," said Tim.
"Cuthbert De Troy was one of my most misguided and disappointing pupils, yes."
"And thanks to you," said Deborah, "we can't find Cuthbert to fill out our jazz combo."
"Who needs Cuthbert and who needs a jazz combo?" asked Mr. Weathermoon.
"The four of us need Cuthbert so that we can be the Castlewhale Quintet," Marcia explained, "and the patrons of the Racoon & the Robin need a jazz combo to entertain them."
"They should learn to listen to Beethoven," said Mr. Weathermoon.
"Cuthbert was my father's piano teacher," said Michael.
"And who is your father?"
"Donny Mercer."
"Hmm. I think I've heard that name. Some fifth-rate night-club entertainer. A worthy pupil of Cuthbert DeTroy."
"Look!" Tim cried, "you messed up Cuthbert. That made Cuthbert mess up Michael's father and that's why we can't find Cuthbert. Then you messed up my mother so that writes a nasty review of Cuthbert's concert and that messes him up even more and that's another reason we can't find Cuthbert!"
"Hold off!" Mr. Weathermoon yelled. "This is too much of a horrible day! First I get booed by the audience on the S.S. Diamond, then the ship sinks in this dark sea, then these alligators follow me, and then I get rescued only to be accused of everything that's every gone wrong with the music world!"
"Okay, we feel sorry for you," said Marcia, "but do you feel sorry for your pupils?"
"Why should I?"
"BECAUSE THEY'VE SUFFERED A LOT BECAUSE OF YOU!" Tim yelled.
"Tim, you're getting out of hand," Cindy cautioned him.
"You don't know the half of it," Diane added. "but I still think I have to take some responsibility for the reviews I've written."
"I don't think we're going to get anywhere by going on like this," said Peter.
"I know," said Deborah "it's Cool Blues who is going to get us somewhere if we're going to get anywhere at all."
"Maybe it isn't all you're fault," said Tim. "Who was you'remusic teacher?"
In spite of the stress in the situation, Mr. Weathermoon put on a relaxed, proud face.
"Why, the best, of course."
"And who was that?" asked Marcia.
"Why Madame Menshikovsky, who else?"
"Who else, indeed?" Deborah responded. "I hear she rapped the knuckles of her pupils every time they played F-Natural instead of F-Sharp."
"She did," Mr. Weathermoon replied. "One has to have standards in music."
"What about standards for being a human?" Tim asked. "Ever think of that?"
"I'll bet we wouldn't have lost Cuthbert if you'd been nice to him," said Marcia.
"I'll bet Michael's dad would be nicer to Michael if you'd been nicer to Cuthbert and Cuthbert had been nicer to Michael's dad," said Tim.
"Maybe I don't have that much talent," said Diane, "but telling me nicely would have helped me find my vocation sooner with less pain."
"Are you really happy with the way Madame Menshikovsky treated you?" Deborah asked.
"This is ridiculous," said Cindy. "Won't they ever learn?
"I doubt it," said Frank. "When everybody goes crazy, you can't tell them anything."
"You should know," said Cindy.
"I stand rebuked."