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At first John Vogel treated the cornet as siested by its design There was nothing exceptional about its construction that would excite a collector At the moment it could excite nobody The valves were corroded and frozen closed; the brass was discolored by an odd sort of accuried the interior of its tubes

Vogel decided the cornet was beneath him; he would turn it over to one of his assistants for the restoration The exotics, those were the instruinal newness the ancient Chinese and Roht tubes and the ear-piercing tones; the battered old horns of the early jazz greats; the instruel would repair with the patience of a watchleamed like new and played brilliantly clear tones

He wrapped the cornet in an old pillowcase and set it against the far wall of his office

The Executone on his desk uttered a soft bong "Yes, Mary, what is it?"

"Adency is on the phone" His secretary's voice scratched over the intercoent"

"Okay, put hiel here"

"Mr Vogel, this is James Sandecker"

The fact that Sandecker had dialed his own call and didn't bluster behind his title iel

"Yes, Admiral, what can I do for you?"

"Have you received it yet?"

"Have I received what?"

"An old bugle"

"Ah, the cornet," Vogel said "I found it onwith no explanation I assumed it was a donation to the museum"

"My apologies, Mr Vogel I should have forewarned you, but I was tied up"