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.