that you were . . . an ass. Forgive me,” he said with dignified warmth. “I very nearly said something stronger. An educated man, and he doesn’t know that he’s ill enough for three! How were you able anyway to keep on your feet?”
“I don’t know,” whispered Prokop, ashamed.
The doctor wished to go on talking but instead grunted and waved his hand. “And how do you feel?” he said sternly. “A little drunk, eh? No memory, eh? And,” he tapped his forehead, “a little weak, eh?”
Prokop remained silent.
“And now, Mr. Engineer,” said the doctor, “don’t do anything about it. It will last for some time. You understand me? You musn’t overwork your head. No thinking. It’ll come back . . . in bits. Only a temporary disturbance, a slight loss of memory, you see?”
The doctor shouted, sweated and grew agitated as if he were struggling with a deaf-mute. Prokop continued to watch him and then said quietly, “Shall I remain always weak-minded?”
“But no, no, no,” said the doctor excitedly. “Completely out of the question. Simply . . . for a certain time . . . a disturbance of the memory, disassociation, exhaustion and certain symptoms, you understand me? Irregularities in co-ordination, see? Rest. Quiet. Do nothing. You must thank God, my friend.”
“Survived,” he went on after a moment and in his delight blew his nose loudly. “Listen, I’ve never had such a case before. You arrived here completely delirious, crashed on to the ground and
