Part 2

The Simalean ballerina did a series of rapid turns and watched the spray and the pattern of ripples that issued from her darting feet.

"Exquisite!" she exuberated. "I shall have to speak with the _maƮtre de ballet_ about a nymphal sequence!"

"Come on, Pop." One of the tumblers confronted Titus. "What's the gimmick? Why are they keeping us loafing around here?"

"Why?" roared a dramatist, allowing his voice full rein in the acoustic inadequacy of the cellar. "I'll tell you: It's a capitalist scheme to abduct the top talent of the glorious workers' federation!"

Hands clamped over his ears, Titus finally made it to the hypertransmitter. He jiggled its dials, beat on the cabinet, lifted a foot from the water and gave it a couple of kicks broadside.

No results. It was obviously shorted out from the flood. And none of the Pullman crafts was equipped with long-range communications gear.

Titus waded from the cellar, plodded through the house, leaving pools of syrupy water in his wake, and stalked onto the veranda.

The scene was no less hectic than it had been. There were two orchestras now. And they were waging a war of decibels to determine whether the "East Cluster Blastoff March" or the "West Cluster Anthem" should prevail over McWorther's World.

Two debating teams were holding forth on the comparative benefits of proletarian solidarity and the free enterprise system. Beyond the caladium bed, Edna, who seemed to have finally succumbed to frustrated abandon, had struck a face-to-the-sun and wind-in-her-hair posture for a portraitist who was drowning futility in artistic endeavor.

But there was neither wind nor sun to accommodate the pose, Titus lamented. For, after yesterday's deliveries by the bright red cargo ships, which had obviously been from the Eastern Cluster, there was little left of McWorther's World that could be recognized.

The immediate area around the house had been spared in the deluge of material. But, beyond, great sloping expanses of grain and crates, barrels, boxes, machinery, bulging sacks and drums stretched up and away like the inner walls of a crater.

Fortunately, disposal onto the surface of McWorther's World had stopped. But not delivery to the system. Coruscating pinpoints of flame, far out in space, signified the presence of thousands upon thousands of cargo carriers that were dropping off their freight in solar orbit. The items of merchandise themselves were indistinguishable. But their composite existence was beginning to take on the appearance of a great ring of fragmented particles stretching around the sun.

And Titus supposed that it was only the reliability of the mass-fending generators attached to each article that tentatively kept them all separate and prevented them from plunging like a devastating hailstorm onto the surface of his world.

He slumped to the ground and bracketed his cheeks between his palms. For some unaccountable reason, it seemed that the productivity of the entire universe was being showered down on his private planetoid in one vast gravy-train effect.

Only he was drowning in the gravy.

* * * * *

"And that's my story." Undersecretary of Cosmic Aid Hoverly laid his hands on the conference table. "And we now have McWorther's World on a total aid schedule."

President Roswell, an angular man with a troubled face, drummed his fingertips together. "Gentlemen, this is most serious."

On his right, Ambassador Summerson's head bobbed in accord. The gesture spread next to the chief of intelligence, then to Hoyerly, thus making the circuit back to Roswell.

"To sum up, then," said the President, "you, Hoverly, authorized aid for a McWorther's World in the 47-126 area."

The undersecretary glanced away uneasily.

"But you, Summerson," Roswell continued, "have no record of having signed aid agreements with such a place."

"That's right," the ambassador verified. "But deciding to accommodate McWorther's World was the most fantastic stroke of good luck imaginable."

Hoverly squinted. "I don't follow you."

"When you sent aid to the Potentate, not only did you pick what will undoubtedly develop into the most critical political area of the millennium, but you also beat the Easties to the draw in a sector that they had staked out all for themselves."

"A stroke of sheer luck," President Roswell concurred.

The roving ambassador leaned back smiling. "The chance timing was perfect too. We beat them by less than two weeks."

But the intelligence chief's face was rigid with dejection. "We got there 'firstest,' to use an ancient expression, but not with the 'mostest.' Our agents in Imperial City report that the amount of aid authorized for McWorther's World is unbelievable. The entire Eastern Cluster is going on a full austerity basis to support the program."

"That shows what value they place on McWorther's World and the sector it opens up," Roswell offered. "When they found out we'd moved in ahead of them, their reaction was frantic."

Summerson rose. "This, then, gentlemen, is it."

"It certainly is." Roswell's voice was heavy with despondency. "The most God-awful aid war the cluster has ever seen."

"We can't back out," the ambassador warned. "We've got to get busy and face up to the task."

"With every resource at our disposal. To ignore the challenge would be to surrender this entire section of the galaxy to the Easties."

The President was silent a moment. "Gentlemen, I am herewith sounding a call to economic arms. Cancel all other aid commitments and activity. Throw everything we have got, everything we can ever hope to produce, at McWorther's World."

"I think you'd better call on the Potentate personally," Summerson proposed.

"That," said Roswell, "is exactly what I intend to do."

* * * * *

Adjusting the drape of his robe, the Emperor sent his eyes flicking over the report. Finally he lurched from his chair with a resounding "Eureka!"

"So you see how it is, Your Imperial Highness," his chief adviser offered. "By cutting in on their McWorther World operation, we have indeed touched a sensitive Western spot."

"There's no question about that," the Emperor said lustily. He was a portly man whose sartorial excesses made him seem even more imposing. His eyes, recessed under thickset brows, flared with triumph as he said, "McWorther's World must figure prominently in their planning. From the way they cut loose with everything they had when they found out we were stepping in too, damned if I'm not convinced this new system will be the pivotal point of their entire future strategy."

"Then we'd better order double production quotas on every world that flies the Eastern flag."

"_Triple_ quotas. And have my space yacht refitted by tomorrow."

"You're going somewhere, Highness?" asked the adviser.

"This Potentate McWorther is likely to be the third most important political figure in the galaxy. I'm not going to lose any time getting over there and pumping his hand."

* * * * *

His face flushed with rage, Ogarm Netath tossed the space-o-gram at his foreign minister, then snatched it back out of Bataul's hands before he had a chance to read it.

"It's a bill!" Netath's voice quivered. "They sent us a bill for that damned bather monstrosity!"

Bataul's brow, to all appearances, was ready for spring planting. "Let me have another look at it."

Netath stood there trembling while the foreign minister sent his eyes darting over the paper.

"It's from Rear-Sobucks!" Bataul exclaimed. "A retail concern that obviously handles automatic bathers!"

"But it was our aid shipment, wasn't it?"

"Apparently not. It says here, '... for merchandise previously extended _in behalf of_ the Western Cluster....'"

"I don't understand."

Bataul's features struggled through a gamut of expressions. "I think I'm just beginning to. Do you remember last year when we had that communications survey made? Between here and the nearest Western relay station, there was that single system. I think some crackpot had laid claim--of course. McWorther's his name. Calls himself a potentate."

Netath stiffened. "And you think--?"

"I think both we and McWorther are victims of message interfusion," Bataul said flatly.

"And our aid shipments--?"

"I'd bet McWorther must be wringing his hands over more loot than he'll ever be able to count."

Netath started punching buttons on his desk. "We've got work to do."

"What kind?"

"First you're going to get off a message to this Rear-Sobucks bunch and tell them what they can do with their bill _and_ their automatic bather--if it'll fit. You can also explain what's happened."

"This time we'll send the message around the _right_ leg of the cluster," Bataul assured.

"Then we're hopping over to this McWorther system and laying down the law to that character. _That_ I want to do personally."

* * * * *

"This," said Twenty-Seventh Vice-President Wheeler of Rear-Sobucks, "explains it all."

"Communications interfusion?" the twenty-sixth vice-president asked.

"Absolutely, V.R. Just like Premier Netath says."

"Then there's a Rear-Sobucks customer who has been unnecessarily inconvenienced and still hasn't been satisfied?"

With a curt nod, Wheeler confirmed the other's fear.

V.R. rose from his desk and wagged a finger at the other. "I still don't understand it all, Wheeler. But I can't avoid the impression that you're somehow responsible for the mess."

Wheeler cowered.

"_You're_ going to take a trip--now!" V.R. went on, gathering steam. "_You're_ going to deliver a bather personally to this Potentate McWorther. _You're_ going to extend the apologies of the entire Rear-Sobucks organization!"

IV

Titus poured his tenth consecutive julep--directly from the bottle, without the benefit of ice, sugar or mint--and leaned back in his chair. His occupancy of a corner of the veranda had been a hard-won concession.

Almost indifferent now, he stared at the hundreds of virtuosos and shouted, "Go home!"

But there was little zing in his voice and the words were, of course, lost in the confused sea of sound--musical, argumentative, operatic and otherwise. Heedless, the orchestras played, the ballet dancers whirled, painters sketched, gymnasts tumbled, dramatists soliloquized and the vocalists made it plain that they would give no quarter.

McWorther's World shud-shuddered. And the towering peaks of machinery and grain, cases and crates rumbled ominously as their slopes shifted. Titus' ears popped and he suddenly felt a giddiness that was all out of proportion to the number of juleps he had consumed.

An all-too-brief silence fell over the multitude. Then, as stability returned to the planetoid, they dived back into their various activities.

They were damned fools, McWorther thought. Even if it meant risking their lives, they would be willing to stay there and consort in their Olympian ecstasy of artistic communion. It was a field day, old home week, esoteric _anschluss_, a fraternal blowout--all rolled into one.

A distant explosion rent what was left of the compact atmosphere. And, as an immediate consequence, additional hundreds of tons of grain _hissed_ down a nearby slope and eased into the lake.

Somewhat concerned, Titus stared at the myriad points of light coruscating deep out in space. What was happening was obvious: There were millions, perhaps billions of articles of freight in the same orbit--all maintaining their distances from the planetoid and from one another by virtue of their mass-repulsion generators. And, where that many electronic units were concerned, the breakdown factor became a predictable quantity. McWorther's World could now expect to be the target of a plunging chunk of cargo once every four or five minutes.

Another few hours, Titus realized, and that interval would be reduced to four or five seconds. For he could readily see the infinite streams of freighters that were still arriving and dropping off additional cargo.

As a matter of fact, it was so thick out there now that only a faint, diffused light was coming through from McWorther's Sun.

Titus poured himself another mintless, sugarless, iceless julep.

* * * * *

The insigne of the Western Cluster emblazoned on its side, a giant ship felt its way down through the atmosphere, sidled this way and that as it squeezed through the barrier of anchored Pullman crafts, pulled up and hovered over the southern edge of the veranda.

At that particular moment, Titus had been quite fascinated with the tumblers' practice session. One of the gymnasts, preparing for a back-flip, had taken a boost from the cupped hands of another. Only the resulting arc through the air was executed with slow-motion rhythm that took the performer to a height of perhaps twenty feet before he floated back to the ground.

At the same time, Titus' ears popped again and he had the odd sensation that the deck chair was shrinking away beneath him.

The newly arrived ship lowered an escalator to the surface and the pilot glided down, landing only a few feet from McWorther.

"There seems to be some mistake," he said. "I was given these coordinates and orbital factor for a--" he checked his notebook--"McWorther's World."

"This," said Titus stiffly, "_is_ McWorther's World."

Cupping his hands, the pilot called back into the ship. "We're on the right place."

An alarmed face poked out of the hatch.

"_This_ is it?"

Titus lurched to his feet, returning an equally startled expression. The man coming clown the escalator was President Vance Roswell of the Western Federation! He had seen the face on thousands of newscasts.

Roswell, sickened, stared at the mountains of supplies on the obscured surface of the planetoid. He tilted his head back and took in the glimmering sea of cargo out in space, the flaring trails of exhaust jets that criss-crossed in an infinite pattern as endless streams of ships jockeyed into position to discharge more freight. Then he dropped to the veranda railing and buried his face hopelessly in his hands.

By then, one of the orchestra conductors, who had also recognized the President, had abruptly brought his baton down to terminate the "Lyraen Overture." He led his ensemble into a stirring rendition of the "West Cluster Anthem."

Without interrupting his misery, Roswell elevated a limp hand and signaled for quiet.

But even before the musicians tapered to silence on a jagged, perplexed note, the other orchestra blared forth with the "East Cluster Blastoff March," all its members standing and facing the northern edge of the veranda.

Titus watched the impressive vessel float to the surface, its almost invisible repulsor beams jostling the lesser Pullman ships out of its way. Splashed across its side was the fist-clutching-galaxy symbol of the Eastern Federation.

He was still gawking when the hatch opened, ushering onto the tiled surface none other than the Emperor himself--an immense, brilliantly robed man who swept like a bowling ball through his retinue of aides.

* * * * *

There were two distant explosions, one close on the heels of the other, and the planetoid convulsed. That time, Titus imagined, he had seen one of the masses of cargo plunging to the surface.

The Emperor drew up before Titus. But although his lips moved, no audible sound came from his mouth, since he was in the immediate range of the Eastern Symphony Orchestra's bass section.

Scowling, he whirled, threw up this arms and bellowed for silence. Quiet came as though someone had pulled a plug.

"Now," he said, propping his fists on his hips and flaring his robe out even further, "perhaps someone will enlighten me. I'm looking for McWorther's World. It's supposed to be here."

Titus poured a triple, undiluted julep and gulped down half of it. He said, "You're standing on it."

"_This!_ That's impossible! What's the population?"

"Two--not counting the transients." Titus started to offer the Emperor the rest of his julep, thought better of it and drank it himself.

Roswell withdrew from his dejection, looked up and nodded, verifying the Emperor's stark suspicion. It was apparent that the President was only then aware of the Emperor's identity. And the latter was obviously no less surprised on recognizing his counterpart from the Western Cluster.

They only stared uncertainly at each other while the hundreds of virtuosos, sensing the propriety of demonstrating their loyalty, split into two groups and took sides behind their respective leaders.

Roswell laughed finally. It was a high-pitched, unnatural sound that conveyed no glee at all and grew only more ragged as his shifting stare once again took in the completely ruined merchandise on the surface, the practically irretrievable cargoes adrift in space. His pitiable outburst suggested an infinity of futility over the wanton waste. It spoke wordlessly of sterility for hundreds of productive worlds over the years ahead--economic sterility, and its inevitable consequence of military impotence.

The Emperor watched him for a moment, then dropped to the veranda rail beside him. He didn't join in the almost hysterical laughter. But his glum features reflected sympathetic appreciation of Roswell's predicament. And in his heavy silence was the admission that the circumstances were mutual.

McWorther's World trembled again. Titus inclined his head to one side, jiggling a finger in his ear to stop it from popping. He could have sworn, too, that he had seen the Emperor and the President levitate a good several inches off the rail.

Edna stalked from the house, surveyed the new arrivals without giving any indication she had recognized them and wagged a finger in her husband's face.

"Titus, this has gone far enough!" she exclaimed. "If you don't--"

"Later, Love," he pacified. "Something's going wrong."

She was taken aback by his understatement. But he hadn't meant it that way. He had merely expressed suspicion over his recurrent sensations of lightness.

* * * * *

Almost at the same time, two other ships dropped down at the edge of the veranda. The hatch of the first sprang open and disgorged a thin man in a swallow-tail coat who drew rigidly erect and announced:

"His Most August Excellency, Prime Minister Netath of Gauyuth-Six!"

Ogarm Netath, indignation branding his features, strode out. "Where's this Potentate McWorther character?" he demanded.

A hundred extended fingers singled out Titus, who was just then pouring a thirteenth julep.

Netath stomped over. "You, sir, have got _my_ aid consignments!"

By that time, the other ship had thrown open its hatch and a short, stout man in a business suit emerged.

"I am Wheeler of Rear-Sobucks and Company," he disclosed, standing to one side so that two men working with antigrav grapples could wrestle a large crate onto the veranda. "I have an apology and an automatic bather for Potentate McWorther."

But Titus turned his back on the man, abruptly facing his wife. "Good God! What day is it?"

She frowned in puzzlement. "Why, Wednesday."

There was a sharp explosion nearby as another article of cargo came hurtling down from space.

"And it's almost noon!"

She nodded, still perplexed.

"Get into the spaceabout, Love--_quick_!"

She hesitated and he gave her a shove.

But he paused and faced the others. "You got just about fifteen minutes to climb into your contraptions and clear out--all of you! Because by then we'll be fresh out of gravity!"

And they'd be lucky if they had _that much_ time, he realized as he followed Edna into the small craft. He had known he would have to face the inevitable crisis on Wednesday. But all along he had been off one day in his calculations, such that he had been sure today was only Tuesday.

"What is it, Titus?" his wife asked as he strapped himself in beside her.

"The supplementary gravity generator hasn't been refueled! It's sputtering out!"

From space, he watched the end of McWorther's World.

The atmosphere went first, _swooshing_ outward as a result of abrupt decompression and leaving a halo of frozen water crystals in its wake. Then the cargo that was piled on the surface recoiled from its own cumulative pressure and shot out into space. The topsoil followed suit, dispersing like a dust storm, while the lakes boiled in one instant and their vapor froze in the next.

Before any of the hurtling mess could reach his spaceabout, Titus followed the Pullman crafts, the Rear-Sobucks delivery vehicle and the Presidential and Imperial yachts into hyperspace.

* * * * *

Titus and Edna McWorther have given up rustic retirement. Instead they are living out their declining years in a floating villa just off the Jersey coast.

Life is still gratifying, with the exception of one detail.

But Titus is resolved that he and his wife will have to be content with the shower-masseur for the rest of their lives.

At any rate, he'll be damned if he'll put in another order for an automatic bather, with or without a back-scrubbing attachment.