"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.