When the initial error was made at the hyper-spatial relay station, a pattern had been set. Committed categorically to the memory banks were the false associations between the State Department's Ganymede Extension and Potentate McWorther, between Premier Netath and Rear-Sobucks. Thus, it was somewhat to be expected that Undersecretary Hoverly should find himself chewing on the under-bristles of his mustache as he read the latest space-o-gram.
Dear Sir:
Needless to say, we are somewhat disappointed over the Western Cluster's meager response to our desperate need.
Perhaps Ambassador Summerson misrepresented our agreement. In that event, we feel sure that consultation with his Excellency will set the record straight.
We would appreciate prompt attention to this detail. Otherwise, in the interest of our people, we shall feel compelled to seek satisfaction elsewhere.
Respectfully yours,
Titus McWorther,
Potentate
 
Hoverly tossed the message on his desk, punched the audio-com button and called for his assistant. When Mallston arrived, the undersecretary was still pacing.
"Did you take care of the McWorther World aid consignment?" he asked.
Mallston nodded. "Delivery should have been made day before yesterday. Full Class A schedule."
"Well, it wasn't enough!" Hoverly extended a stiff finger toward the space-o-gram. "Read that."
Looking up finally, Mallston said, "Evidently we dropped the ball."
"Indeed we did. Ambassador Summerson must have promised the Potentate the whole works."
Hoverly resumed pacing. "I should have guessed as much. President Roswell only last week hinted that the Western Cluster should level its galactic commerce sights on that entire sector."
Mallston pondered the gravity of the space-o-gram. "Maybe we should lay the McWorther development before the President."
Bristling, the undersecretary said, "And call attention to our own incompetence? We'll straighten this matter out by doing what we should have done in the first place—by putting the Potentate on the double-A priority list. Full and immediate delivery under Class B through K schedules."
Mallston started out, but paused at the door. "How about cultural exchange?"
"We'll play it safe by assuming Summerson shot the works in that category too. Round up every uncommitted cultural group in the cluster."
Shaking his head deprecatingly, the twenty-seventh vice-president stood before the desk of the next highest official in the Rear-Sobucks hierarchy.
"Well, Wheeler," V.R. clipped without looking up. "What is it this time?"
"I'm afraid Netath didn't take too kindly to our gesture."
"Netath? Netath?" V.R. milked the name for its significance.
"Ogarm Netath. The prime minister of that Gauyuth place. The automatic bather."
"Oh, that one."
Wheeler handed over the space-o-gram and V.R. muttered through the message:
Dear Sir:
I'm sure you made a mistake filling my order. You've got to come pick up your shipment right away. We're up to our ears and it's shaking us to pieces.
Yours in disappointment,
Ogarm Netath,
Prime Minister
 
Growling, V.R. dropped an effervescent pill into a glass of water. "You can't get anywhere with these back-planet bumpkins. I doubt that this Netath ever had a bath. Send him a Supplementary Manual of Operating Instructions."
Wheeler started for the door.
But V.R. called after him. "And bill the prime minister for that article. It'll teach him to show a little bit of appreciation."
Titus winced before the persistent tremors that came through the floor of his cellar. He made another adjustment on the gravity control deflecting the planetoid's center of pseudomass another few feet. The ground beneath him finally quieted.
"Three days," he mumbled, dragging himself up the stairs.
Edna received him with hands on hips. "Three days—what?"
"Getting things balanced again."
"What are you going to do about all that stuff cluttering up our beautiful planetoid?" She was near tears.
With Edna dogging his steps, he returned to the veranda, where his julep was now quite thin and warm in the rays of the setting sun.
"We'll have to find out where it came from first," he said, staring dismally over the mountains of machinery and grain, the tumbled stacks of crates and barrels and kegs, the lesser rows of wheeled and winged vehicles.
"Seems to me," Edna persisted, "that the invoices will show that." She gestured at what remained of the stacks of printed forms.
The rest of the slips were strewn over the ground as far as he could see. "Only the first sheet will show the origin&mda............