In the Blue Auditorium, they were waiting for us with fanfare and posters. The musical accompaniment - a sound illusion - suspiciously resembled the processing of a funeral march. Very free, rollicking and as artistic as Georg Voisky's tact and upbringing allowed. A classmate had neither one nor the other, so his march came out so specific that the request to stop tormenting the ears of already inflated nerves quickly turned into a collective shelling of rotten eggs. Of course, illusory, but no less nasty and smelly.

So, if the music was on the conscience of the SHIP adept, then the rest was the merit of the teachers of the...