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--"