Many light years away, the Emperor of the Eastern Cluster whirled
around, kicked his bejeweled train out of the way and faced his chief
adviser. "So they've opened up a new aid offensive?"
"And a most vital one." The adviser blew on his spectacles and
burnished the lenses against his sleeve. "A place called McWorther. Our
intelligence got its coordinates from their consignment documents."
"Never heard of it."
"That's what's so insidious about this whole capitalist plot. They've
kept it under their hats."
"And why is it so vital?"
The adviser directed the Emperor's attention to a space globe suspended
from the ceiling. He pressed two buttons on the wall and twin beams of
light intersected within the sphere. "That's McWorther's location."
"Why--why--" the Emperor stammered. "That outflanks us completely!"
"What concerns me is how many other undisclosed but settled worlds lie
in that same general area."
"A whole raft of them, no doubt," the Emperor said pessimistically.
"What are we going to do?"
"In this critical sector we've got to make friends--and fast! We'll
begin with the McWorther place."
"How far do you want to go?"
"All the way. Empty the surplus bins. Clear out the warehouses. Let
McWorther have every available pound of material and equipment."
"Terms?"
"Terms be damned! We let the Western Cluster steal a march on us.
We've got to recoup. Everything goes as an outright gift--with all the
cultural trimmings thrown in."
* * * * *
Titus splashed into the cellar and struck out for the hypertransmitter.
It was a peculiar flood. Suffusing the water was a thick scum that
flashed iridescently as it caught the glint of light from the ceiling.
He stuck his finger into the dross and applied it to the tip of his
tongue.
Syrup!
He thought of the thousands of barrels that had been dumped into the
lake and surmised that the contaminated water was backing up through
the drainage system.
He altered course for the pumps.
And, like ships in convoy, a score of virtuosos invaded the cellar,
paddling in his wake.
The soprano's piercing voice assailed his ears. "In all my theatrical
experience, I have never been subjected to such indignity! I insist--"
But a violinist pushed forward, wielding his bow like a stiff finger.
"You, sir, are holding back on us. No doubt you know what our future
instructions are."
"I've never seen such fascist highhandedness," complained a diminutive
choreographer in the uniform of a Palosov Rocket Dancer. "In the name
of the ministry of culture of the Eastern Federation, I demand to see a
representative of His Imperial Highness!"
Ignoring them, Titus trudged on to the pumps and set them for maximum
drain-off.
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."