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.
netath stomped over. "you, sir, have got my aid consignments!"
by that time, the other ship had thrown open its hatch and a short, stout man in a business suit emerged.
"i am wheeler of rear-sobucks and company," he disclosed, standing to one side so that two men working with antigrav grapples could wrestle a large crate onto the veranda. "i have an apology and an automatic bather for potentate mcworther."
but titus turned his back on the man, abruptly facing his wife. "good god! what day is it?"
she frowned in puzzlement. "why, wednesday."
there was a sharp explosion nearby as another article of cargo came hurtling down from space.
"and it's almost noon!"
she nodded, still perplexed.
"get into the spaceabout, love—quick!"
she hesitated and he gave her a shove.
but he paused and faced the others. "you got just about fifteen minutes to climb into your contraptions and clear out—all of you! because by then we'll be fresh out of gravity!"
and they'd be lucky if they had that much time, he realized as he followed edna into the small craft. he had known he would have to face the inevitable crisis on wednesday. but all along he had been off one day in his calculations, such that he had been sure today was only tuesday.
"what is it, titus?" his wife asked as he strapped himself in beside her.
"the supplementary gravity generator hasn't been refueled! it's sputtering out!"
from space, he watched the end of mcworther's world.
the atmosphere went first, swooshing outward as a result of abrupt decompression and leaving a halo of frozen water crystals in its wake. then the cargo that was piled on the surface recoiled from its own cumulative pressure and shot out into space. the topsoil followed suit, dispersing like a dust storm, while the lakes boiled in one instant and their vapor froze in the next.
before any of the hurtling mess could reach his spaceabout, titus followed the pullman crafts, the rear-sobucks delivery vehicle and the presidential and imperial yachts into hyperspace.
titus and edna mcworther have given up rustic retirement. instead they are living out their declining years in a floating villa just off the jersey coast.
life is still gratifying, with the exception of one detail.
but titus is resolved that he and his wife will have to be content with the shower-masseur for the rest of their lives.
at any rate, he'll be damned if he'll put in another order for an automatic bather, with or without a back-scrubbing attachment.
