"Indeed we did. Ambassador Summerson must have promised the Potentate
the whole works."
Hoverly resumed pacing. "I should have guessed as much. President
Roswell only last week hinted that the Western Cluster should level its
galactic commerce sights on that entire sector."
Mallston pondered the gravity of the space-o-gram. "Maybe we should lay
the McWorther development before the President."
Bristling, the undersecretary said, "And call attention to our own
incompetence? We'll straighten this matter out by doing what we should
have done in the first place--by putting the Potentate on the double-A
priority list. Full and immediate delivery under Class B through K
schedules."
Mallston started out, but paused at the door. "How about cultural
exchange?"
"We'll play it safe by assuming Summerson shot the works in that
category too. Round up every uncommitted cultural group in the cluster."
* * * * *
Shaking his head deprecatingly, the twenty-seventh vice-president
stood before the desk of the next highest official in the Rear-Sobucks
hierarchy.
"Well, Wheeler," V.R. clipped without looking up. "What is it this
time?"
"I'm afraid Netath didn't take too kindly to our gesture."
"Netath? Netath?" V.R. milked the name for its significance.
"Ogarm Netath. The prime minister of that Gauyuth place. The automatic
bather."
"Oh, _that_ one."
Wheeler handed over the space-o-gram and V.R. muttered through the
message:
Dear Sir:
I'm sure you made a mistake filling my order. You've got to come
pick up your shipment right away. We're up to our ears and it's
shaking us to pieces.
Yours in disappointment,
Ogarm Netath,
Prime Minister
Growling, V.R. dropped an effervescent pill into a glass of water. "You
can't get anywhere with these back-planet bumpkins. I doubt that this
Netath ever _had_ a bath. Send him a Supplementary Manual of Operating
Instructions."
Wheeler started for the door.
But V.R. called after him. "And bill the prime minister for that
article. It'll teach him to show a little bit of appreciation."
* * * * *
Titus winced before the persistent tremors that came through the floor
of his cellar. He made another adjustment on the gravity control
deflecting the planetoid's center of pseudomass another few feet. The
ground beneath him finally quieted.
"Three days," he mumbled, dragging himself up the stairs.