at one hundred and thirty, life was indeed gratifying for titus mcworther. but for one missing detail, it would have been perfect.

with his wife, edna, he had planned well for retirement. his idyllic estate consisted of a second-hand planetoid, thirty miles in circumference, which was the only habitable piece of matter in its system. complete with supplementary gravity generator, a compact atmosphere, a mantle of lush topsoil and a carefully selected biota, mcworther's world was both his delight and his pride.

its principal asset was, of course, its isolation.

well away from the mainstream of galactic civilization, mcworther's star was smugly hidden behind a dark nebula, through which he and edna plunged twice a year to the fringe of the cluster—just to observe and mock convention, if for nothing else.

it was an ideal setup.

but, after two sedentary years, titus realized he still needed one item to make his retirement complete. so he dispatched this tight-beamed message to the packet order department of rear-sobucks and company in the west cluster federation's hub city:

dear sir:

please send one automatic bather with back-scrubbing attachment and toy boat docks, as listed in your videolog under order no. 4678-25c. charge same to credit account no. w414754-b24d.

sincerely yours,

titus mcworther, potentate

mcworther's world

he listed the coordinates of the star and the orbital factor of his planetoid.

unfortunately, the hyper-spatial line between mcworther's world and the nearest relay center was partly coincident with the link to the politically noncommitted world of gauyuth-vi.

this condition, together with the fact that components of a communication are sent by separate pulse, sometimes leads to the embarrassing phenomenon known as "message interfusion," which is retransmission of the right text with the wrong signature.

and it so happened that as titus mcworther's order was en route, the system was also being burdened with this intelligence to the ganymede extension of the western cluster's state department:

dear sir:

this will verify our agreement and authorize implementation of interstellar aid arrangements as set forth in conferences with your ambassador. if such arrangements produce mutual satisfaction, we will quite readily declare concurrence, in principle at least, with the political aims of the western cluster.

respectfully yours,

ogarm netath,

prime minister

gauyuth-vi

appended to the signature were the coordinates of gauyuth and the orbital factor of its number six planet.

wharton hoverly, undersecretary of cosmic aid for the western cluster, plucked at his thick, gray mustache as he reread the space-o-gram.

he punched the videobox stud. "mallston!"

the younger and more composed face of his assistant stared from the screen. "yes, sir?"

"anything yet?"

"not a thing. we have no record of a—mcworther's world."

"what do you suppose?"

"well, it seems authentic enough. we do know ambassador summerson has been working in that general area."

"and you think summerson signed an aid agreement with this potentate?"

"i'd say the message speaks for itself."

again, hoverly worried his mustache. "did you check with summerson?"

"he's on extended leave."

"what do you think we ought to do?"

"mcworther's world must be a critical area. and evidently we're going to get what we want out of the deal, since the potentate speaks of concurrence with western cluster aims."

impatiently, the undersecretary glanced out the window. ganymede was well out of the jovian umbra now. if he didn't leave soon, he'd be late for his conference with the commerce department on farside luna.

"all right, mallston," he said. "put mcworther's world on a class a aid schedule. that ought to hold the potentate until summerson gets back."

in the commercial section of hub city, rear-sobucks and company occupied a monstrous building whose emblematic tip pierced the clouds.

on the two hundredth floor, the twenty-seventh vice-president strode through the rail gate, tossed the secretary a "don't-bother-to-announce-me" glance and went on into the inner office of the twenty-sixth vice-president.

"got something i thought you'd be interested in, v.r.," he told the limp-faced man behind the desk. "there may be a promotion angle."

"what is it?" v.r. asked, not exactly gripping his chair with anticipation.

the other placed the space-o-gram on the desk. "it's from an ogarm netath, prime minister of a place called gauyuth-six. he wants an automatic bather."

v.r. extended a "so what?" glare.

"don't you see? big shots like that don't place personal orders. but here's one who thinks so much of a rear-sobucks item that he forgets all about convention."

"and so, wheeler, you want to capitalize on his good name in some sort of promotion gimmick," v.r. said through taut lips.

wheeler shrank. "but i thought—"

"never mind what you thought. fill his order. send it compliments of—let's see, gauyuth-six is uncommitted—compliments of the western cluster."

it was a fine morning on mcworther's world. cotton-candy clouds floated over the fields. dreaming herons, balanced on slender legs, gave the shallows of the lake a tufted appearance. a delightful breeze, artificially generated at the equator, wafted flowering stalks and rocked the air car and spaceabout at their moorings.

titus snorted on the veranda and reached for his julep. he was a chunky little man, with the ruddiness of good health tinting his face and overflowing onto his partly bald pate.

"where are you, titus?" an anxious voice disturbed the quiet of the house.

"out here, love."

edna appeared in the doorway. despite her age, there was still the fascination in her timeless eyes that had snared titus more than ninety years ago.

"the chef burned the beans again," she said, frowning.

"guess i'll have to fix it."

"you know it's not the cooker. it's that darned gravity."

he realized now it was a weight fluctuation that had nudged him from his nap.

"i've got it set that way, love," he explained. "we did not get clouds in the contract. but by varying the gravity control we can have them for nothing. it all has to do with atmospheric pressure."

edna cast a resigned glance skyward. "if that's the way you want it—fleecy clouds and burnt beans—"

the guttural scream of braking jets rattled the windows and sent the herons winging for the safety of the other hemisphere. hesitating on the fringe of the atmosphere, the freighter altered its approach and landed beside the house.

titus went out to meet the skipper and his three assistants whose arms were filled with printed forms.

"you potentate mcworther?" the skipper asked.

titus smiled in embarrassment. "it's a gag. i just call myself that."

"we got your order," the other snapped. "where do you want it?"

titus' small eyes widened with an inner vision of the automatic bather—a vision which went on in speculation to dispose of the crude shower-masseur, for which he and edna were getting a bit too old.

"if you'll put it on the veranda—" he paused and shouted back toward the house. "edna, get out the grapplers. we're in business."

"fun-ny," the skipper observed with dry derision. then he signaled to his waiting assistants.

they came forward and, one by one, thrust their stacks of printed forms against titus' chest. his arms came up in a reflex to accept the offerings. but, as the third assistant's contribution sent the stack soaring in front of his face, he went down under the weight.

when he had extricated himself from the mound of paper, the men had returned to their ship. and now its sides were folding down and scores of huge crates were drifting out on repulsor beams and fluttering to the ground.

soon the freighter was gone and edna was at his side.

"what have you gotten us into now, titus?"

"honest, love—i don't know."

suddenly his ears were splitting with the thunderous roar of a thousand ships plunging down to the surface as far as he could see around the perimeter of his small world. each pulled to a halt a few feet from the ground, opened its sides and disgorged vast mounds of crates and sacks, boxes and barrels, naked hills of coarse material that hissed like gravel as it spewed from chutes, gleaming masses of machinery.

confounded, titus seized one of the slips of paper. it was an invoice listing two hundred earth movers, seventy-five instant pavers, five hundred concrete mixers.

matching his frown, edna read a second sheet and demanded, "what on earth do you expect to do with a hundred thousand barrels of wheat germ oil? four thousand kegs of eight-penny nails? forty-five hundred tons of soybeans?"

at his secluded villa, prime minister netath was entertaining his foreign minister, ugaza bataul.

netath leaned against the terrace bar and proposed a toast. "to an era of plenty."

bataul smiled. "at the expense of the western cluster."

they gulped the drinks and netath stared down into his empty glass. "we're quite fortunate that the western cluster's aspirations are extending to this sector."

"as long as we can be sure that there won't be any military advances." bataul added the qualification with misgiving.

"oh, there's no danger of that. actually, we're lucky we didn't try to get on the eastern cluster's gravy train. we'd have had to make a lot of concessions."

heralding its own approach with a sputtering rumble, the station 'copter came in low over the trees and dropped down on the lawn. netath walked over as his chauffeur climbed out of the cab and used antigrav grapples to float a large crate out of the freight compartment.

"just picked it up at the space terminal," the man explained. "must be that aid shipment."

bataul laughed. "you mean the first batch of credit certificates, maybe."

the chauffeur pressed the "unpack" stud. the sides of the crate fell outward.

"what is it?" netath drew back, surveying the ivory, tanklike thing with its sparkling fixtures and flexible appendages.

bataul bent and read the words on the inscription plate: "deluxe automatic bather—4678-25c."

by then, netath had found the torn, soiled delivery tag. he read the part of the writing that was still legible:

"... sincerely hope this expression of western amity meets with your satisfaction. if we can serve you again, please don't hesitate...."

infuriated, he imparted a vindictive kick to the crate and crumpled the paper.

"that's the cosmic aid we were expecting?" bataul sputtered.

"capitalist western dogs!" netath exclaimed. "they were just trifling with our planetary honor!"

"it's an insult against our racial character!" the foreign minister said severely. "they know we have no use for a bather, shedding our skin as we do once a day."

netath forced restraint into his features. "we will not lose our diplomatic poise. there is always the chance a mistake has been made."

he drew the contacter out of his pocket and shouted into its grid, "miss yalera?"

"yes, sir?" came the instant answer.

"take a space-o-gram to solaria."