"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."