But there was neither wind nor sun to accommodate the pose, Titus lamented. For, after yesterday's deliveries by the bright red cargo ships, which had obviously been from the Eastern Cluster, there was little left of McWorther's World that could be recognized. The immediate area around the house had been spared in the deluge of material. But, beyond, great sloping expanses of grain and crates, barrels, boxes, machinery, bulging sacks and drums stretched up and away like the inner walls of a crater. Fortunately, disposal onto the surface of McWorther's World had stopped. But not delivery to the system. Coruscating pinpoints of flame, far out in space, signified the presence of thousands upon thousands of cargo carriers that were dropping off their freight in solar orbit. The items of merchandise themselves were indistinguishable. But their composite existence was beginning to take on the appearance of a great ring of fragmented particles stretching around the sun. And Titus supposed that it was only the reliability of the mass-fending generators attached to each article that tentatively kept them all separate and prevented them from plunging like a devastating hailstorm onto the surface of his world. He slumped to the ground and bracketed his cheeks between his palms. For some unaccountable reason, it seemed that the productivity of the entire universe was being showered down on his private planetoid in one vast gravy-train effect. Only he was drowning in the gravy. * * * * * "And that's my story." Undersecretary of Cosmic Aid Hoverly laid his hands on the conference table. "And we now have McWorther's World on a total aid schedule." President Roswell, an angular man with a troubled face, drummed his fingertips together. "Gentlemen, this is most serious." On his right, Ambassador Summerson's head bobbed in accord. The gesture spread next to the chief of intelligence, then to Hoyerly, thus making the circuit back to Roswell. "To sum up, then," said the President, "you, Hoverly, authorized aid for a McWorther's World in the 47-126 area." The undersecretary glanced away uneasily. "But you, Summerson," Roswell continued, "have no record of having signed aid agreements with such a place." "That's right," the ambassador verified. "But deciding to accommodate McWorther's World was the most fantastic stroke of good luck imaginable." Hoverly squinted. "I don't follow you." "When you sent aid to the Potentate, not only did you pick what will undoubtedly develop into the most critical political area of the millennium, but you also beat the Easties to the draw in a sector that they had staked out all for themselves." "A stroke of sheer luck," President Roswell concurred. The roving ambassador leaned back smiling. "The chance timing was perfect too. We beat them by less than two weeks."