"Never mind what you thought. Fill his order. Send it compliments of--let's see, Gauyuth-Six is uncommitted--compliments of the Western Cluster." * * * * * It was a fine morning on McWorther's World. Cotton-candy clouds floated over the fields. Dreaming herons, balanced on slender legs, gave the shallows of the lake a tufted appearance. A delightful breeze, artificially generated at the equator, wafted flowering stalks and rocked the air car and spaceabout at their moorings. Titus snorted on the veranda and reached for his julep. He was a chunky little man, with the ruddiness of good health tinting his face and overflowing onto his partly bald pate. "Where are you, Titus?" an anxious voice disturbed the quiet of the house. "Out here, Love." Edna appeared in the doorway. Despite her age, there was still the fascination in her timeless eyes that had snared Titus more than ninety years ago. "The chef burned the beans again," she said, frowning. "Guess I'll have to fix it." "You know it's not the cooker. It's that darned gravity." He realized now it was a weight fluctuation that had nudged him from his nap. "I've got it _set_ that way, Love," he explained. "We did not get clouds in the contract. But by varying the gravity control we can have them for nothing. It all has to do with atmospheric pressure." Edna cast a resigned glance skyward. "If that's the way you want it--fleecy clouds and burnt beans--" The guttural scream of braking jets rattled the windows and sent the herons winging for the safety of the other hemisphere. Hesitating on the fringe of the atmosphere, the freighter altered its approach and landed beside the house. Titus went out to meet the skipper and his three assistants whose arms were filled with printed forms. "You Potentate McWorther?" the skipper asked. Titus smiled in embarrassment. "It's a gag. I just call myself that." "We got your order," the other snapped. "Where do you want it?" Titus' small eyes widened with an inner vision of the automatic bather--a vision which went on in speculation to dispose of the crude shower-masseur, for which he and Edna were getting a bit too old. "If you'll put it on the veranda--" He paused and shouted back toward the house. "Edna, get out the grapplers. We're in business." "Fun-ny," the skipper observed with dry derision. Then he signaled to his waiting assistants. They came forward and, one by one, thrust their stacks of printed forms against Titus' chest. His arms came up in a reflex to accept the offerings. But, as the third assistant's contribution sent the stack soaring in front of his face, he went down under the weight. When he had extricated himself from the mound of paper, the men had returned to their ship. And now its sides were folding down and scores of huge crates were drifting out on repulsor beams and fluttering to the ground. Soon the freighter was gone and Edna was at his side.